


Variations On An Arrangement

by hanap



Series: Worlds In Parallel [1]
Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: ALL THE OMENS EVERY LAST ONE YOU CAN IMAGINE, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Omens, Dimension Travel, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Violence, Multiverse, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Radio Omens, Reverse Omens, TV Omens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Crowley tenses as the demon lifts its glamour, revealing its corporeal form to Crowley—a male-shaped corporation, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit with a red tie. The demon reaches up and pulls off his dark sunglasses, uncovering the sharp yellow-gold of his slitted eyes.Crowley’s jaw drops. “Who thefuckare you?”“Anthony J. Crowley,” the demon drawls, raising an eyebrow at him.[In which three different Crowleys go on an adventure to rescue the Aziraphales who have gotten displaced in the multiverse.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Worlds In Parallel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088003
Comments: 417
Kudos: 297





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Tags for the fic will be updated as I go along!

The sound of glass shattering echoes loudly through the bookshop.

Crowley sways and trips over the well-worn rug on the floor. For a moment, he’s in very real danger of falling onto the shards—but he catches himself just in time and manages to stagger to the couch, pulling off his sunglasses and collapsing into the paisley blanket face-first. The dust that’s settled into the blanket’s folds is unpleasantly gritty against his cheek.

His fingers brush against a book lying on the ground, and he picks it up. He blinks blearily once, twice, until the words finally swim into focus.

—

“Angel, you _know_ I only like the funny ones.”

“Indulge me, please. Poor William wouldn’t stop until I promised him I would give it to you. He’s truly very grateful.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a look, one he knows the angel would be able to recognise even through the dark lenses of his glasses. True to form, Aziraphale pouts at him. Crowley sighs, already knowing that he would say yes to whatever Aziraphale asked, but he isn’t letting this go without a fight.

“Alright, fine. But I’m not keeping it with me.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale’s brow furrows.

Crowley wants nothing more than to reach up and smooth the small crease between his eyebrows away with his fingertips. He licks his lips, tries not to get distracted. “Keep it here. With your other books.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s worried face relaxes. “Are you certain? Don’t you want to take it with you?”

“Nah. It’ll be better off here with the rest of your collection. ‘Sides, you know me. I move around a lot, it’ll just end up getting lost.”

“That’s true.”

Crowley bites his lip and tries not to laugh as Aziraphale looks down at the brand-new copy of _Hamlet_ in his hands, as though trying not to seem too excited at the thought of adding it to his already overcrowded shelves. “Well, in that case, I’ll keep it safe for you here, shall I?”

“Much obliged, angel.” Crowley allows one corner of his lips to tilt up into a smirk as Aziraphale beams at him. Two birds with one stone. He’s divested of a book at the price of a very pleased Aziraphale, and he’ll take every win he can get.

—

Crowley’s gorge rises at the memory, and he hurls the book across the room with all his strength. Its spine collides against the wall, and it falls to the floor with a muted thud. His vision is blurring again, and he draws a sleeve roughly over his eyes.

Swaying slightly, he gets up and stumbles across the room, kneeling to pick it up. The spine is dented, the pages badly creased from falling face down on the ground, and a wave of remorse overcomes him. He passes a hand over it gently, smoothing out the pages and straightening the spine once more. With trembling hands, he touches the cover, opens it to find a name written in a familiar hand. _Anthony J. Crowley, Esq.,_ inked in an elegant copperplate.

Suddenly, he can’t look at it a moment longer. He slams the book shut and presses it against his chest, shivering.

 _Angel,_ he thinks, a broken sound escaping his throat despite his best effort to quell the trembling of his lips. _How could you leave me like this?_

_—_

_“Oh,”_ Aziraphale breathes, and his fingers skim lovingly over a leather-bound first edition of _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ and he turns to look at Crowley, his eyes bright. “Everything really is just as it was. Before Armageddon.”

It makes a shudder run involuntarily up Crowley’s back to think of the bookshop consumed by the flames. For a moment, an echo of the panic and fear he had felt that day pulses through him, and he has to take a deep breath before he can speak.

“Sure is. Went over all the books myself. Adam’s even sent you some new ones.”

Aziraphale hums in surprise. “That was very kind of him.”

“Although I do have to say…”

“What?”

“It’s considerably neater now than it used to be.” Crowley’s lips twitch. “Don’t you think so?”

“You sly serpent.” Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow at him haughtily, though he’s clearly fighting a smile. “I’ll have you know it was in perfect order before, even if it didn’t make sense to you.”

Crowley’s face cracks into a grin. Oh, the angel can deny it all he likes, but Crowley knows the layer of dust that gathers on the shelves and windowsills, the used teacups lying about forgotten, wedged indiscriminately in between the teetering stacks of books. Aziraphale is meticulous about a great many things, but the state of cleanliness of the shop is not one of them.

“My point is, he saved you the trouble of straightening your books and dusting.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Either way, I’m very grateful.” He looks up at Crowley through his lashes. “I almost can’t believe we’re here.”

“We made it, didn’t we?” Crowley reaches up and pushes his glasses more securely against his eyes as he watches Aziraphale drinking in the sight of the bookshop, and the joy is radiating from him in waves so palpable that they wash over Crowley and leave him feeling pleasantly warm somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. He snaps his fingers discreetly and pulls a gorgeous bouquet of bright yellow tulips wrapped in light blue crepe paper from the ether.

“Thought the bookshop could use a touch of something more celebratory,” he says, nonchalantly handing them to Aziraphale.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes shine as he takes the flowers from Crowley, admiring them for a long moment. “These are lovely.”

“Hmph.” Crowley snaps his fingers again, and a tall glass vase appears on Aziraphale’s desk, already filled with water. “Come on, angel. We’re going to be late for our dinner reservations.”

“Not with your driving, we won’t,” Aziraphale retorts, but Crowley can see him smiling as he carefully arranges the tulips in the vase. _Everything_ _’s alright now,_ he reminds himself, _everything_ _’s just the way it was._

_—_

Aziraphale’s choicest wine selections are sitting in storage, just as they always have. Crowley can’t bring himself to touch them. He’s been drinking some sort of swill he’d purchased at the nearest off-licence instead, too worn out to miracle them into anything resembling quality whiskey, but it hardly matters at this point—he’s too drunk to taste anything beyond the heat of the alcohol as it scrapes its way down his throat.

Crowley wonders occasionally how long it’s been. He stares at the empty bottles lying scattered on the floor, the glittering shards of broken glass, and lifts another bottle to his lips. He drinks as deeply as he can, his eyes watering with the burn. He slouches in an armchair and wonders what he’s still doing here in this bookshop full of nothing but books and echoes. Every blessed millimetre of it reminds him of the angel. Hell, if he closes his eyes and just breathes, the smell of vanilla and lavender and old books filling his lungs, he can almost pretend that nothing has happened. Any moment now, Aziraphale is going to emerge from the backroom with two bottles of wine for Crowley to choose from, _do you feel like merlot or cabernet sauvignon today?_

Being here is intolerable. He thought the bookshop would ease his misery, but the ringing silence only amplifies the white noise of his grief. And yet he stays, haunting the place like a spectre, and he waits, hoping against hope that Aziraphale might suddenly turn up once more, smiling and apologising for keeping Crowley waiting for so long.

He’s rifled carefully through the contents of Aziraphale’s desk, carefully gone through each nook and cranny, though it filled him with shame to invade the angel’s privacy. The backroom, the small kitchen, even the ridiculously old word processor Aziraphale still has for keeping track of his taxes. Crowley's done everything short of reading every blessed book in the shop to find some sort of hint for what’s happened to Aziraphale.

But there is nothing but this terrible desolation, a gaping chasm in the world where Aziraphale had been torn out like a page ripped from a book. Even the fire was better than this, Crowley thinks drearily, better than this horrible purgatory of not knowing, suspended between unyielding hope and overwhelming despair.

The bottle slides from Crowley’s fingers and lands with a loud clatter against the wood of the floor. He curls in on himself, his shoulders shaking. _Angel, please. Please. I am actually begging you. Please come back._

—

“Crowley, will you _please_ just tell me what all this is about?”

For once, Crowley’s actually concentrating on the road, if only to get them to the South Downs as fast as he could. There’s only a small window of time for them to see the meteor shower tonight—he’s been planning this for _months,_ a surprise for the angel, and he isn’t about to miss it because a few pedestrians dared to cross the street on their way there. Stop lights turn green, cars miraculously move out of the way. But even with demonic intervention, he knows they aren’t going to make it, and he’s growing more and more incensed by the second.

“Crowley, even for you, we’re going too fast—”

And that’s what does it. Crowley hits the brakes so hard the Bentley’s wheels screech in protest as he pulls up abruptly by the roadside, narrowly escaping at least two collisions, first with a sedan and then with a ten-wheeler truck, which honks at him angrily. He ignores the driver who’s shouting obscenities at him and punches a hole into one of the truck’s spare tires for good measure.

“Too fast, is it, angel?”

Crowley regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. For a moment, he’s afraid to look at Aziraphale. His hands clench hard around the steering wheel. Neither of them speaks for an interminable minute, and Crowley wonders if it would be at all possible for him to step out of the car and directly into the oncoming traffic instead.

At last, Aziraphale’s voice breaks the silence. “Crowley—”

“No, angel, forget it,” Crowley interrupts. “Just a stupid thing, really.” He’s already put the car back into gear, making the most obnoxious U-turn he can manage before Aziraphale can react.

“What are you doing?”

“On second thought, think I’ll call our plans off for today.”

“Oh, but—”

“Don’t worry about it, all right?” Crowley takes a deep breath and _focuses_ in a way he rarely does when he’s driving _,_ and in an instant they’re speeding down Soho. He takes another breath and forces the next words out through his teeth. “S’not like we had anything special on tonight.” He pulls up in front of the bookshop, and the passenger side door opens of its own accord. He turns his face toward the angel, enough to give the impression that he’s looking at Aziraphale even though his eyes are firmly fixed on the dashboard. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. Out of the corner of Crowley’s eye, he sees Aziraphale’s hand make an aborted movement, as though he had been about to reach out for Crowley but stopped himself at the last moment. His throat tightens. _Nothing new,_ he reminds himself, but it stings more than he cares to admit every time.

“We’ll have dinner sometime this week.”

“If that’s what you want,” Aziraphale says at last, and he steps out of the Bentley. “Call me, please. And mind how you go.”

—

It hits Crowley hard, the memory of the last time he had seen Aziraphale, its weight slamming into him with unprecedented force, leaving him gasping for breath. In all his eons of existence, he has never felt anything like this. Another bottle shatters into pieces. Crowley buries his face in his hands. _I_ _’m sorry, angel,_ he thinks wildly, his throat raw and aching, _I_ _’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry, please angel, please. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, I’ll never cancel plans with you again, just please, come back. Come back to me._

Suddenly, Crowley sees the flicker of movement in his periphery, and before he can stop himself, hope flares in the pit of his stomach, bright and scorching, just for a split second, before he catches himself. He sinks down onto the couch and rubs at his eyes wearily. Maybe this is his corporation’s hard limit—too much alcohol and he starts hallucinating.

He opens his eyes, and he sees a silhouette towering above him.

_Demon._

Instinct kicks in, and Crowley’s on his feet before he can think.

He reaches for his power, wrapping restraints tightly around the shadow where it stands, but it breaks free of the curse easily and throws him hard against a bookshelf. Crowley’s stunned, but only for a moment—in the next, he’s contained the shadow in a thick layer of demonic energy, freezing it in place. It takes Crowley more effort than he thought with his mind sodden with whiskey, and he staggers, almost losing his footing.

The moment of weakness costs him his chance—his hold over the demon is broken as the energy fades and dissipates, and suddenly an unseen hand is dragging Crowley bodily across the bookshop. He can’t move, can’t _think,_ his corporation a wreck with weeks of drinking without pause, and he struggles fruitlessly against the force that’s pulling him back on his feet, shoving him hard onto the couch, rendering his limbs immovable. In a final bid to break free, Crowley tries to concentrate on shifting into his serpent form, but it’s impossible with his mind caught in a haze of alcohol and grief.

“Will you stop _fighting_ and listen to me for a moment, you bloody idiot?”

The odd note of frustration in the voice makes Crowley snap to attention. There was something eerie about that voice, something almost… _familiar._ Crowley tenses as the demon lifts its glamour, revealing its corporeal form to Crowley—a male-shaped corporation, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit with a red tie.

The demon reaches up and pulls off his dark sunglasses, uncovering the sharp yellow-gold of his slitted eyes.

Crowley’s jaw drops. “Who the _fuck_ are you?”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” the demon drawls.

 _Impossible._ “Is Hell playing some kind of prank on me?” Crowley demands, still struggling to break free.

“Do you think there are other demons in Hell who have some semblance of a sense of humour, or fashion? This suit is Hugo Boss, thank you very much. From the 2019 Fall/Winter Collection.” The demon sighs and snaps his fingers.

Suddenly, Crowley’s mind is miraculously clear. He blinks for a moment in surprise, his tongue uncomfortably dry in his mouth after being sobered up unexpectedly. He eyes the other demon warily—he has to admit, it’s a compelling argument. “What’s going on here?”

The demon is wincing, and he rubs at one arm. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be.”

“What’re you trying to say?” To Crowley’s annoyance, the demon gives him a sweeping look from head to toe.

“You’re all skin and bones,” he says abruptly, examining Crowley closely. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror at all lately?”

This infuriates Crowley more than anything, and he bares his fangs in a snarl. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through —”

“Don’t I, though?” The demon— _Crowley?_ —rubs at his eyes in an uncannily familiar movement. “Look, let’s start over, shall we? I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I’m Anthony J. Crowley. You can call me Anthony, if you like. You can be Crowley.” He snaps his fingers once more, and the bonds holding Crowley in place unravel and release him.

This Crowley’s _definitely_ not him, Crowley thinks somewhere in the back of his mind as he rubs the circulation back into his hands. For one thing, this one was weirdly polite. “Anthony,” Crowley repeats cautiously. “If this isn’t a trap or a joke, are you going to explain at all?”

Anthony exhales sharply. “Certainly. I suppose we’ll begin with… your Aziraphale being gone.”

“I’m not going to sit here and talk to you about this —”

“Listen, Crowley,” Anthony cuts across him, his voice urgent now. “He’s only _gone,_ do you hear me? He’s not dead, just gone. My Aziraphale is—” His voice breaks for a moment, but he clears his throat and continues. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that your Aziraphale just isn’t here, do you understand? He’s somewhere else. In another universe, for lack of a better word.”

“What are you on about?” Crowley can’t process this. Aziraphale’s just… elsewhere? Despite himself, hope is beginning to unfold in his chest.

“I don’t know what happened,” Anthony says. The lines around his eyes tighten. “But the Aziraphales in the different universes have somehow gotten displaced. I know that doesn’t make any sense at all,” he adds quickly as Crowley opens his mouth to protest. “But I’m telling you, it’s true. Look at us. Aren’t we both Crowley? And yet we aren’t quite the same.”

Crowley takes another look at Anthony, sizing him up. The physical differences between them are immediately obvious. Anthony’s much more broad-shouldered, lean but muscled, with his dark hair carefully slicked back. He has a few inches on Crowley, and—though Crowley hates to admit it—he’s just this side of intimidating at first glance.

But the eyes… the eyes are the same.

“Did Hell brand you?” Crowley asks brusquely.

Anthony nods. “Serpent sigil like yours,” he says, gesturing to the side of his face. “On my back. Much bigger, though.”

That space between the base of his wings… the burn must have been terrible. Crowley winces at the thought. “That’s got to hurt.”

“It did.” Anthony lifts and drops a shoulder half-heartedly. “So did yours, I imagine.”

Crowley shrugs, and realises that he had just mirrored Anthony’s exact same gesture. His eyes flick suspiciously toward Anthony, who’s watching him with a weary sort of look on his face, and suddenly he knows they must be thinking the same thing. Because they are the same, yet not quite the same.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of asking next, you better be prepared to answer it yourself,” Anthony warns.

Heat suffuses Crowley’s face suddenly as Anthony raises an eyebrow at him. “W-what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if I were you, I’d have some very specific questions in mind. I’d ask about why you Fell first. And then maybe I’d ask about the… state of affairs, as it were, between you and your angel, how it all started.” Anthony drops an eyelid lazily at Crowley, who immediately begins to protest. “Relax. I’m not going to ask, and I think you wouldn’t either.”

“What makes you think you know me so well?” Crowley says sharply.

“For obvious reasons, I don’t think either of are interested in talking about Falling. As for the other thing, well…” Anthony’s mouth tilts up into a knowing smirk. “I’d be happy to answer that, but do you really want to know?”

There’s suddenly too much compassion in Anthony’s face for Crowley’s liking, and that is _not_ a rabbit hole that he wants to fall into right now.

“Alright,” Crowley says at last, deciding he’d rather navigate them into safer waters for now. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you and I, we really are both Crowley, except you’re from some other universe, or whatever. What does this have to do with—” He can’t bring himself to say the angel’s name out loud, but Anthony nods as though he understands.

“We have to put things back the way they were.” Anthony takes a step toward Crowley. “Find all the Aziraphales, return them to where they’re supposed to be.”

It sounds utterly ridiculous, but if there’s even the slightest chance that Crowley might see Aziraphale again… “How do we do that, exactly?”

“Same way I got here.” Anthony extends a hand to Crowley. “You’ll need your wings out.”

“Are we flying there?” Crowley says, alarmed.

“No, you idiot,” Anthony retorts. “It just makes things easier. Trust me.”

“Trust another demon? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, well.” Anthony’s lips curve into the same insouciant smirk Crowley’s seen so many times on his own face. It’s annoying beyond belief. “We’re all out of options, I’m afraid. Besides, you could at least try and trust yourself.”

“Very funny.” Crowley takes his hand. Anthony takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes. His wings unfurl from the ether, and to Crowley’s surprise, the feathers are a pearly grey. He hesitates for a moment before pulling out his own wings, letting out a little sigh of relief. It’s been a while since he’s had a proper stretch.

Anthony stares at them curiously. “Those… don’t look half bad,” he admits grudgingly. “You could do with a little more grooming, though.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Let’s _go._ ”

“You ready, then?” The corners of Anthony’s lips twitch, as though he’s holding back a laugh. It would be infuriating if Crowley wasn’t so impatient to get the show on the road.

“I’ve got no idea what the fuck is happening, but sure, I’m ready.” _Aziraphale,_ he thinks, _wherever you are, I_ _’m coming for you._

Anthony grins and grips Crowley’s hand tightly. “Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going on an ADVENTURE with a million Crowleys and Aziraphales, don't forget to subscribe! <3 
> 
> This fic was inspired by [Except it Abide in the Vine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910536) by spitandvinegar.


	2. The Serpents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony recoils and grips Crowley’s arm hard enough to hurt, but Crowley hardly notices, because that is definitely _Aziraphale_ standing there dressed in blacks and greys, waistcoat and trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up, an old-fashioned cravat in dark brown and navy blue knotted around his neck—but his hair is as dark as Anthony’s, streaked with grey at the temples, and his eyes, _his eyes_ —they were a sharp, sickening shade of acid green, split in half with vertical black slits.

The bookshop dissolves around Crowley, and there’s a sickening sensation of being _moved_ on both planes of existence, the corporeal and the metaphysical, as though the very stuff of the universe is shifting under his feet, and Crowley’s losing his balance in the dizzying swirl, slipping out of the fold of the world entirely—

But just as suddenly, the ground suddenly stabilises under him, and everything comes back into focus abruptly. He staggers, but his wings help him stay on his feet, and the hand gripping his tightly grounds him. He looks up blearily to see Anthony watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Crowley manages, feeling the way he did that one awful morning in China, 868 A.D.— he’d fallen asleep after a night of carousing without miracling himself sober, and had woken up with his insides churning horribly and his head aching fit to burst.

“Told you you’d need your wings.” Anthony says, the smug bastard. He drops Crowley’s hand and glances around speculatively, and only then does Crowley recognise where they are.

“Is this—”

“What do you think?” Anthony stretches his wings wide, luxuriating in the space, and the dappled light from an enormous tree catches on his feathers. Crowley looks around in wonder at the verdant green foliage and the lush fragrance of the blooming flowers. _The Garden_.

There’s a strange sense of something being out of place despite its tranquil air, even as the birds sing and the wind rustles through the leaves. As though time was standing still.

Not the Garden, then?

“Where are we?” Crowley asks suspiciously. He’s still feeling somewhat queasy.

“Call it Eden, I guess,” Anthony says. “It’s… an in-between place. Liminal space. We’ve got to pass through here first before we go to the next one.”

“What’s in the next one?”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “You ask so many questions.”

“I’m _you,_ aren’t I?” The words slip off Crowley’s tongue before he can think, but to his surprise, Anthony laughs.

“I suppose you are,” Anthony says, grinning slyly at Crowley. “Honestly, I don’t know. We’re just going to the next one and we’re going to pick up the Aziraphale who’s there, take him back to his Crowley, on and on until everyone’s back to where they’re supposed to be.”

Crowley nearly chokes when Anthony says _his Crowley._ He certainly isn’t—the heat is creeping up his neck, and Anthony is watching him, lips twitching as though he’s fighting a smile. Crowley growls in annoyance. “Stop _staring_ at me.”

Anthony raises his hands. “All right, calm down. Put your sunglasses on or something.”

Crowley scoffs, but he pulls his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and puts them on. Anthony, however, does not.

“Don’t you—”

“Cover my eyes? No.” Anthony sits on the ground, leaning back against a tree trunk. “What’s the point?”

“Well…” Crowley doesn’t know why he’s struggling to find a reason, but he is. “You’ve got to keep the humans from getting suspicious, don’t you?”

“Again, what’s the point?” Anthony asks dryly. “Doesn’t matter what the humans think.”

“Oh, forget it.” It’s too complicated to explain. He wears sunglasses, Anthony doesn’t. He’ll just leave it at that.

“Look, just relax.”

“As if you ever take it easy,” Crowley sneers.

“I’m certainly keeping it together much better than you are.” Anthony shrugs, smirking as Crowley’s mouth falls open in outrage. “I told you. We’ll find your Aziraphale, all right?”

Crowley splutters out a mess of consonants. “He’s not _my—_ _”_

“I’d beg to differ.” Anthony is watching him with that amused expression on his face again. “I’m about a hundred percent sure that in every universe we’re going to, there will be an Aziraphale and a Crowley. A matched set of them.”

The heat’s moving up Crowley’s cheeks now. “Aziraphale and I, we’re not—it’s not _like that._ ”

“Oh?” Anthony’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s interesting. And why not?”

“What do you mean, why not?”

“I mean, _why not?_ ” Anthony snorts. “Six thousand years. Unbelievable.”

Crowley’s entire face is on fire. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You do.” Anthony’s got that smug look back on his face. It’s beyond irritating.

“What about you and _your_ Aziraphale, then?” Crowley demands. “What’s that about?”

He sees it on Anthony’s face, the exact moment he closes himself off. It’s an infinitesimal movement in the lines of his face, his grin shifting into a blank façade of humour. Crowley knows because he’s done that himself more times than he cares to think about. He clears his throat awkwardly — he’s crossed some sort of line, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Anthony doesn’t give him a chance to.

“Let’s go,” Anthony says abruptly, and gets to his feet. “We’ve got some Aziraphales to find.”

—

When Crowley opens his eyes, his stomach rolling unpleasantly, he finds himself standing before an all-too-familiar bookshop. He stares at it for a moment, confused. Where are they?

“That’s enough dawdling,” Anthony says impatiently, his hand already on the doorknob. He puts a finger to his lips as he pushes the door open quietly. Crowley nods and steps in after him, still feeling out of his depth, and more than a little resentful at being ordered around.

The door shuts behind them with a click. They stand for a moment in the utter silence. Crowley peers around in the half-light of the drawn shades, all of his senses on high alert.

It’s nearly an exact replica of Aziraphale’s bookshop, except this one is much more… dingy. Could do with a deep clean, he thinks, noticing the crumbs on the floor and the used teacups scattered haphazardly on some of the tables.

“Anthony,” he mutters. “What the Heaven is this?”

“Bit of a mess, eh?” Anthony’s gaze sweeps through the bookshop, and suddenly, he puts out a hand and catches Crowley in the chest, stopping him from going any further. “There’s someone in here.”

Suddenly, there’s a loud clattering noise coming from the direction of the kitchen. Crowley tenses as Anthony steps in front of him, blocking him from the immediate line of sight of whoever was in the back room.

“Crowley!” Anthony shouts, and there’s another loud sound, like pots and pans toppling over, before a demon skids into the bookshop.

It’s a strange sensation, seeing this Crowley—a jarring sort of recognition, despite the obvious differences in appearance. He’s lanky and rail-thin, with skin the colour of burnished copper and exceptionally sharp cheekbones. He wears his dark hair slicked back like Anthony, but longer and decidedly more dishevelled, with a few odd tufts sticking out here and there. Crowley privately thinks that his bright red shirt could have been tailored a little better.

The new Crowley pulls his aviators off, and his golden eyes are wide with disbelief, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “What the blessed…”

Anthony holds his hands up placatingly. “Crowley, hear us out—”

He’s interrupted by a third clanging noise from the kitchen, and the new Crowley whips his head around and yells without further ado, “Oi, I told you to quit touching his things!”

“I’m trying to _organise_ them, it’s hardly my fault they’re in such a state!”

Crowley feels his heart leap into his throat to hear those exasperated words. He _knows_ that voice even better than he knows his own. His breath catches painfully in his chest in anticipation, and out of the kitchen steps—

Anthony recoils and grips Crowley’s arm hard enough to hurt, but Crowley hardly notices, because that is definitely _Aziraphale_ standing there dressed in blacks and greys, waistcoat and trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up, an old-fashioned cravat in dark brown and navy blue knotted around his neck—but his hair is as dark as Anthony’s, streaked with grey at the temples, and his eyes, _his eyes_ —they were a sharp, sickening shade of acid green, split in half with vertical black slits.

“A-Aziraphale,” Anthony finally croaks out, sounding as though he’s had the breath punched right out of him. Crowley’s face has gone completely numb with shock, and even if he could have moved his lips, no words would have left them.

“Do stop staring at me, darlings, it was bad enough when _he_ did it the first time,” he says huffily, throwing a glare at the third Crowley, who scowls right back. “And if you don’t mind, I would really rather not be called that name. As you can see, I’m no longer an angel, just the same as the rest of you.” He sighs and straightens his waistcoat compulsively. “Please call me Ezra.”

Anthony’s just standing there with his mouth open, nonplussed, his usual nonchalance gone without a trace. Frankly, Crowley can’t blame him in the least. He looks as bowled over as Crowley feels. The third Crowley shifts from one foot to another, looking dubiously at the two of them.

“Look,” he says, putting his glasses back on. “How about we, er, sit down and try to sort this all out?”

“I suppose I’ll go and make us some tea,” Ezra says doubtfully, and heads back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, sounds like an idea.” Crowley prods Anthony into the backroom and into a chair. He’s still staring goggle-eyed at Ezra pulling out teacups from a cupboard above the sink, humming cheerily.

Crowley clears his throat. “So, Crowley,” he says, addressing the third Crowley, who’s now eyeing Ezra suspiciously as he putters about with the copper kettle. “We should probably call you something else. Y’know, just to spare us the confusion.”

“Oh.” His brow furrows, but he’s still watching Ezra like a hawk. “A.J. should be fine, I guess.”

Crowley clears his throat. “A.J., then. Suppose we should start with what happened to your Aziraphale.”

“Right,” he answers, snapping back to attention. Somewhere in the back of Crowley’s mind, he notices that this Crowley’s canines are noticeably sharp, and his tongue is split down the middle. _Huh._ “Well, it’s been a couple of months since Armageddon. It wasn’t really that something _happened_ , he was just here one day and gone the next. I showed up here to pick him up for lunch and found _him_ instead.” He jerks his head at Ezra, who’s just bustled to the table with four cups and a teapot on a tray. “He’s obviously not the Aziraphale I know.”

“ _Obviously._ _”_ Ezra rolls his eyes and starts passing out the teacups. “I’ll be mother, darlings,” he says, daintily pouring tea into three cups before setting the teapot down, leaving A.J.’s cup empty. “It’s been a few weeks since I arrived, and I would very much like to sort this all out. I assume that you know how to do that, since you’ve found your way here.”

He’s just as fussy as Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, and has to smother a smile despite the painful throb under his ribs at the thought. “Seems as though the Aziraphales have all been shuffled around from where they’re supposed to be—and the Ezras, of course,” he adds hastily, and Ezra smiles at him graciously. “So we’re going to be rounding everyone up and sending them back home. S’that right, Anthony?” Crowley nudges him with his elbow.

“Anthony?” Ezra perks up, gazing at him with interest. “Is that what you’re called?”

“Er, yeah.” Anthony swallows visibly. He still hasn’t quite regained his composure, and he picks up his cup of tea and takes a large gulp. Crowley completely understands—he still hasn’t quite absorbed the fact that the Aziraphale sitting catty-corner from him is as Fallen as any of them. He shoves that thought into a box and locks it up tight, to be dealt with at a later date (or never, really, he’s not particular). In any case, there’s only so much a demon can be expected to endure in an afternoon.

Anthony finally puts his teacup down on the saucer. “I went to get Crowley here a little while ago, and we’ve come to fetch you,” he says to Ezra without looking at him.

“You’re going to find Aziraphale?” A.J. yelps from across the table, and nearly drops the teapot in his eagerness. “I’m coming with you.”

Ezra throws him a nasty look. “And here I thought we’d finally be parting ways for good, my dear. How delightful.” He sips his tea with a distinctly aggrieved air. Crowley tries not to think of the fact that his heart is doing something very complicated in his chest right now.

Anthony rubs wearily at the space between his eyebrows. “Well, all right. I suppose we’re all going to end up back at the Garden before all this is over, then.”

“The Garden?” Ezra asks, the confusion clear on his face.

“You’ll see,” Crowley says, resigned. “Come on, we should get going.”

—

When they appear back at Eden, Anthony turns to Ezra, who’s still swaying on his feet from the journey and looking rather nauseated. The feathers of his wings are a deep mahogany brown, and Crowley can’t help thinking to himself that they were really quite overdue for a good preening.

“Right, then,” Anthony says brusquely. He seems to have finally recovered himself. “You’re going to have to stay here. If you move around, it might end up causing more disruptions in the universe, and we can’t afford to have any more Aziraphales—er, and Ezras dislodged from where they’re supposed to be.”

“All right,” Ezra says amiably enough. “Quite strange to be back here after so long, isn’t it?” He looks around for a moment, taking in the abundance of greenery around them. “You’ll be returning here with my Camiel at some point, then?”

 _Camiel._ The very name sends a shudder down Crowley’s spine. He sees Anthony’s eyes flick in his direction, and Anthony shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. _Not now,_ he’s saying, and Crowley hates that they understand each other this well. The locked box of Thoughts To Deal With Later is filling up alarmingly fast, and it hasn’t even been a full day yet. He takes a deep breath and changes the topic. “We’ll leave you two here for now, so we can go to the next place and find the next two.”

“Let me go with you!” A.J. protests. Crowley’s thoroughly disoriented by the fact that his wings are still a pristine white, though much better groomed compared to Ezra’s.

Anthony sighs and acquiesces. “We can take turns later, if you insist. But I don’t think we should all go at once, to avoid alarming the two who are there. Crowley here tried to kill me,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Crowley. “I’d really rather not repeat that experience.”

“Maybe if you didn’t sneak up on me like that—”

“If you were drunk _,_ that’s hardly my fault—”

“Well, since you _must_ leave me here with dear A.J.,” Ezra cuts in, looking annoyed, “I do hope you’ll be back as soon as possible.”

—

Crowley opens his eyes and find himself in the middle of a gloomy forest, thick with fog, the ground crisscrossed with tree roots climbing over each other like vines. Crowley frowns as he lets go of Anthony’s hand. “Where the Heaven are we?”

“Do you really think I have any answers? I’m just as lost as you are.”

There’s a strange feeling about the air here—it hangs thick and heavy around them, and something about it is distinctly infernal. The fog is so dense that he can barely see more than a few metres in front of him, even with his demonic eyesight.

Crowley glances at Anthony, who’s clambering up the enormous tangle of roots to peer around the trees for some sign of a way through. There’s a manic energy in the way he’s moving, something that suggests at an anxiety that’s prickling just beneath the surface. Crowley knows that feeling all too well.

“You all right there?” Crowley asks cautiously.

There’s a long pause before Anthony exhales and climbs back down. He shoves his hands into his pockets moodily. “Come on, Crowley. You can’t tell me seeing Aziraphale like that—”

“I know,” Crowley mutters. “I never even considered the possibility that there was a universe where he Fell.”

Anthony shakes his head disbelievingly. “And you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“We’re going to find his… Crowley at some point.”

Crowley exhales sharply. If he allows himself to think about this now, he’s going to very quickly spiral into a panic. “One universe at a time, yeah?”

“Yes, all right.” Anthony scrubs his hand over his face. “Give me a minute.” He shuts his eyes, and Crowley feels him extend his power around them, a low-level humming in the atmosphere. Now that he has a point of comparison, Crowley realises that the eerily familiar oscillation of Anthony’s power doesn’t feel that much different from the demonic energy that he can sense in the fog around them.

“Anthony,” he says slowly. “The Crowley we’re looking for here—”

“Is the source of the fog,” Anthony finishes, opening his eyes. “He’s hiding, and he’s doing a good job of it, too. I would never have been able to find him if he wasn’t the same as us.”

“What’s he hiding from?” Crowley wonders, as he and Anthony stumble over tree roots. “Or who?”

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Anthony says grimly. “Think we could do something about this fog?”

“Maybe.” Crowley focuses for a moment before he snaps his fingers. The air around them clears, but only for a few seconds. Before long, the fog is creeping back in, long tendrils snaking through the air and shrouding their surroundings from sight once more.

“That’s a no, then,” Anthony says, chewing at his lip in thought. “He’s putting a lot of effort into this, which means—”

“He’s probably vulnerable,” Crowley says, the realisation filling him with dread.

“Or the Aziraphale who’s made it here is.”

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Crowley knows Anthony is growing just as apprehensive as he is.

“No time to lose, then,” he says at last, and onward they trudge, deeper and deeper into the forest, Anthony leading them through the maze of paths until finally, Anthony raises his hand for Crowley to stop. He raises a finger and presses it to his lips. Crowley nods in acknowledgment, and Anthony snaps his fingers.

The fog lifts, just enough to briefly reveal the mouth of an enormous cave.

Crowley reaches out with the senses of his occult self—and with a jolt of shock, he comes into contact with an incredible power signature, pulsing with energy inside the cave. He looks at Anthony quickly, who’s edged behind a tree to take a closer look. He motions Crowley over, and he sees that there’s a faint red glow emanating from the cave, as though from a fire.

“They’re in there, all right,” Anthony mutters below his breath. “Let’s just… try not to get discorporated.”

“Right.” Crowley winces. “Be a bit of a complication, that.”

They make their way to the cave’s yawning entrance. For a moment, Anthony hesitates.

“Get ready,” he whispers to Crowley. He scuffs a stone under the toe of his shoe and kicks it into the cave.

For a moment, nothing happens. And then Crowley peers into the red-orange glow and sees shadows shifting faster than he can react—a gargantuan _something_ wraps around Anthony’s waist, and he lets out a cry of shock before he’s yanked bodily into the cave’s depths.

 _Fuck._ Crowley grits his teeth and scrambles in, chasing after them. He doesn’t need to go very far before he nearly collides with the coils of a massive snake, all shimmering black and red scales in the firelight. Crowley gulps under the scrutiny of a pair of unblinking yellow eyes staring at him in the darkness.

Anthony yelps as he’s dropped unceremoniously on the ground next to Crowley.

“Holy _shit,_ _”_ Anthony says fervently, grimacing as Crowley grasps his elbow to pull him to his feet.

“Yeah.” Crowley swallows, the yellow gaze still fixed firmly on his face. “Maybe we should, er… introduce ourselves?”

The huge body slithers closer, coils scraping across the ground, and a face at last reveals itself in the light of the fire. Crowley inhales in disbelief. This Crowley has a head of thin red snakes instead of hair, each one of them hissing at Crowley with their fangs bared. But the cold, proud face is _beautiful,_ all aquiline nose and sculpted cheekbones and jaw, sharply defined by the shadows from the flickering of the fire. The serpentine body ends at the hips, and with a torso and arms covered with scales, leaving only the stomach, chest, and a thin strip of the throat bare.

Crowley wonders to himself if he could pull off a shape like this with his own corporation. He doubts it.

“Er, hi.” Anthony’s voice comes out slightly more high-pitched than usual. “We’re—Crowley. Him and me, we’re from different universes.”

The serpent Crowley says nothing, only gazes at them.

“I don’t think you’re explaining properly,” Crowley mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

“Well, how about you take a turn?”

There’s nothing for it. Crowley clears his throat and steps forward. “Look, I’ve lost my… my Aziraphale.” The serpent flinches minutely at the mention of the angel’s name, his coils suddenly shifting, poised to defend. “And so has he,” Crowley continues, nodding in Anthony’s direction. “I think you might have lost your angel too, haven’t you? We’ve come to get all of them back.” Crowley watches as the serpent’s gaze flicks to one side uncertainly.

_Where's Aziraphale?_

Crowley could have sworn the serpent’s mouth didn’t move, but he hears it anyway—a deep, husky voice echoing through the cave.

“We don’t know just yet,” Anthony says from behind Crowley. “But we’ll find him. He’s just ended up somewhere else.”

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Crowley adds reflexively, because isn’t that what they’re all hoping for? That their Aziraphales are safe somewhere in another pocket of the universe? “Will you come with us to help find him?”

The serpent stares at them for a long moment before shifting once more, closer and closer until the chiselled face is only inches from Crowley’s, the tiny snakes moving and hissing at Crowley inquisitively. Odd to feel so exposed before a being that’s _technically_ the same as himself, Crowley thinks in the back of his mind, feeling as though the golden eyes were digging right into the very depths of his infernal essence despite the sunglasses he’s still wearing.

At last, the serpent seems satisfied, and moves to examine Anthony in turn, and at length. He stands watching the serpent warily, and the tiny snakes hiss at him suspiciously for a moment, undulating closer to Anthony’s face, tiny forked tongues darting out to taste the air. The serpent finally nods and withdraws.

 _You are like me._ _Demons of a human shape. Though why you would choose that form when you could have_ this _is a mystery to me._

“It’s what Hell issued.” Anthony shrugs. “Will you come?”

The serpent nods. _Where will we go?_

“We’re rounding everyone up first,” Crowley says. “When everyone’s gathered, we can send everyone home.”

“But before that, is there an Aziraphale with you?”

The serpent’s head swivels to look at Anthony. _Yesss,_ the sibilant assent lingering in the air. _He_ _’s here._

“Can we talk to him?” Crowley says cautiously. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

 _No. He isn_ _’t._ The serpent hesitates, something like indecisiveness flickering on the still face for a moment. _But he_ _’s…_

“He’s what?” Anthony says suspiciously.

The serpent sighs and relents. _It would be easier to show you than to explain._ The coils of his body move to make a space large enough for an angel to pass through.

 _Aziraphale,_ the voice hisses. _Come out._

Crowley hears footsteps coming from deeper in the cave, and before long, a familiar form appears before them—all soft curls and round cheeks, dressed in a spotless white linen robe, the white feathers of his wing tips brushing the ground. Aziraphale, just as he had looked in the Garden, when they had first met on the Wall.

“Oh,” Anthony says hoarsely. “ _Angel._ ”

Aziraphale flinches, and the serpent lowers himself down to block the angel from view, his face fierce in the firelight. _Don_ _’t scare him._

“We won’t,” Crowley says. This is very quickly becoming much more complicated than he had first imagined. “We just want to talk to him.”

“Crawly?” A voice says tentatively from behind the serpent’s shoulder, and Crowley feels as though his heart is being squeezed in his chest suddenly. “Is that you?”

“Er, not quite.” Anthony pushes his tousled hair away from his face. “Look, angel, we’re not going to hurt you, all right? We’re going to sort all this out and you’ll be back at the Garden before you know it.”

“Why are there three of you?” Aziraphale asks, gazing at them doubtfully. “And what are you _wearing?_ _”_

“Hugo Boss,” Anthony says automatically, before he realises what he’s just said. His mouth twists into something like a smile, but Crowley can’t help thinking it looks rather pained. “Never mind, it’s a long story. We’ll explain on the way.” Anthony nods at the serpent, and he reaches behind him and takes the faltering angel gently by the hand.

“S’gonna be all right,” Crowley says, suddenly struck by the memory of meeting Aziraphale over six millennia ago, looking just as this Aziraphale looks now, and a harsh wave of anguish sweeps over him unexpectedly. “You’ll be fine, we promise,” he says, his voice rough in his throat, and holds out his hand.

Aziraphale nods, looking a little less wary, and steps forward from behind the serpent to grasp Crowley’s hand.

“Crowley.” Anthony says, nearly inaudibly, and blesses under his breath. “This one’s going to meet _Ezra_.”

Crowley groans and shakes his head. “We’ll deal with it later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, there are six of them now, and there will be plenty more coming right up! 
> 
> I'm notoriously terrible at replying to comments, but thank you to everyone that read the first chapter - honestly thought this would be an "I wrote this for me, but you can read it too" situation, and I'm so thrilled that you're reading and liking it! I promise I'll get around to it soon. Hope you enjoyed this! (Subscribe if you haven't yet, this story's got some very exciting places to go!)


	3. The Third Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reappear in front of what is undoubtedly a greenhouse. Smack dab in the middle of central London. With a sign on the front lawn in unmistakably familiar calligraphy that simply says, “The Garden”.
> 
> “Huh,” Anthony says slowly. “I’m guessing this is…”
> 
> “Ezra’s angel.” Crowley swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his stomach is churning. “And if he’s anything like us, there’s no way we’re going to get in that greenhouse without him smiting us first.”
> 
> “You never know,” Anthony muses. “We _are_ him. In a way.”

The return trip to Eden isn’t as bad as Crowley thought it was going to be.

True, the serpent Crowley coils himself immediately around the new Aziraphale protectively as his head of snakes bares their fangs at Ezra, and Anthony steps between them with his hands out, trying to placate.

Ezra, however, is quite unruffled. “My dear, that is a _fascinating_ form you’ve taken,” he says to the serpent over Anthony’s shoulder, a clearly admiring expression in his green eyes. “Is this your true form?”

The tiny snakes hiss uncertainly as the serpent tilts his head, watching Ezra warily. _No,_ he says at last.

“Oh, my,” Ezra muses, his eyes brightening. “What a sight that must be.”

“Er… Introductions?” A.J. mutters to Crowley.

“Right, right.” For a moment, it strikes Crowley how ridiculous introductions are when they’re all essentially the same being, just in different iterations. Nevertheless, he clears his throat, and the serpent turns in his direction, though the tiny snakes keep their gaze fixed on Ezra. “This is A.J.,” he says, motioning to the demon beside him, “And you’ve obviously met Ezra. I’m Crowley, and that’s Anthony.”

The serpent adamantly refuses to be called Medusa, but an irritatingly handsome smirk appears on his face when he agrees to be called Quetz. He uncurls himself slightly, relaxing the tense lines of his body to allow the angel to step forward.

“Hello,” Ezra says, and Crowley is surprised to hear that his voice is pitched low, gentle. “What shall we call you?”

“I… I don’t know,” he murmurs, his eyes darting upwards nervously, fingers worrying at the golden embroidery at the hem of his robe.

Ezra hums. “I imagine you’re the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, like Camiel?”

“I am,” he says. He looks anxiously behind his shoulder at Quetz, who nods encouragingly. “Or I was, I suppose. Forgive me for asking, but who is Camiel? I don’t think I’ve met an angel of that name.”

All the Crowleys wince. Ezra throws a sharp glance at Anthony, who’s looked away, and quickly waves the question aside. “Never mind, that isn’t important. Now, how do you feel about ‘Aeos’? Can we call you that?”

 _Aeos_ , Crowley thinks to himself. _Harbinger of the dawn._

“Suits you,” A.J. says, and the smile on his face wobbles just the slightest bit. Crowley sympathises completely.

“Aeos,” the angel repeats to himself quietly. A soft smile appears on his face, and it makes Crowley’s heart ache to see it. “That sounds rather lovely.”

—

Crowley’s agreed to stay behind to let A.J. go with Anthony. He sits at the base of a large tree entirely in blossom, watching as Quetz reaches up into the branches of a tree to pluck its round fruit with a clawed hand, placing it like an offering into Aeos’s cupped palms.

He’d never had that with Aziraphale—Hell had ordered him to follow the humans into the desert not long after the first rain. He’d looked behind him wistfully, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the angel who had shielded him with a carefully extended wing, but there was no one there to see him leave.

There’s a scuffing sound behind Crowley, and he turns his head to see Ezra with an armful of ripe oranges.

“You don’t mind me sitting with you for a bit, do you?”

Crowley can’t think of any particular reason to object, so he moves a little to the left to give Ezra some room. Ezra settles down next to him and pulls out a pocket square striped in dark blue and grey, spreading it on the grass and laying the oranges on top of it.

“It’s nice to have some other company for once.” The fresh scent of citrus fills the air as Ezra picks up an orange and begins peeling it with skillful fingers. An entire swath of peel comes free, and he places on the pocket square pith side up.“The past few days with A.J. have been… a trial.”

A laugh escapes Crowley’s throat. Ezra’s still so polite, even as a demon. “Can’t blame him, really. Or you,” he adds hastily as Ezra looks up at him, an eyebrow raised. “I mean, this isn’t what any of us were expecting, was it?”

Ezra grins sharply. “I certainly wasn’t ever expecting to meet you as a demon, let alone four of you at once.” His hands still for a moment before he continues peeling the fruit, stripping it of the last shreds of its white pith. “It was a shock, to say the least.”

“You didn’t react at all when you saw us, though.”

“Well, my dear,” Ezra sighs. “Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of practice with my angel.”

“How do you mean?” Crowley asks curiously.

“He tends to be quite skittish, even after all these years.” Ezra pulls the orange in two and places one half gently down on its peel. “I do my best to give him what he needs, but it isn’t always that simple.” He eases a segment free from the halved fruit and holds it up, inches from Crowley’s lips.

Crowley realises that Ezra has held out the orange in such a way that he still has the option to simply take the fruit from Ezra’s hand with his fingers, if he wants—the thought of it is making his heart do something very strange in his chest. The green serpentine eyes that are fixed on him are soft, understanding, and a rush of affection fills Crowley suddenly as it occurs to him that Ezra cares for his angel, just as much as Crowley cares for his own, and he leans forward and allows Ezra to place the segment of orange on his tongue, receiving it like a sacrament.

The heat rises to Crowley’s face at the light brush of Ezra’s fingers against his lips, and he quickly chews to distract himself. The sweet, tangy juice spreads over his tongue as he bites down on the soft pulp, and he nods approvingly at the bright, refreshing flavour in his mouth.

Ezra’s cheeks are faintly flushed. “I… I must admit, I hadn’t expected that,” he murmurs, half-delighted, half-ashamed.

“To be fair, I didn't, either.” Crowley huffs out a laugh. “My angel would have never.” _My angel—_ he bites his tongue, embarrassed at the slip.

“Neither would mine,” Ezra says, taking a segment of orange for himself and humming in pleasure. “He doesn’t like eating much, truthfully. Not the way I do.”

“I’m well-acquainted with your love of fine dining, believe me,” Crowley says, his lips curling up into a real smile. Oh, he misses Aziraphale so much it _burns,_ but right now, he’s almost overcome by the revelation that this is undeniably Aziraphale—even as a demon, he is still the same.

“Some things never change, I suppose,” Ezra says, and smiles as though he, too, is picking up the direction that Crowley’s thoughts are taking. He puts an entire quarter of the orange in his mouth at once, chewing blissfully for a long moment before adding, “You must admit these oranges are delicious, though.”

“They are,” Crowley agrees, and leans over to be fed another slice of fruit.

—

When Anthony and A.J. finally return, they bring back an odd pair with them—a Crowley with long black curls neatly pinned in place, dressed in a thin long-sleeved blouse and a dark floor-length skirt embroidered with red hibiscus blossoms (Crowley can’t help eyeing this ensemble with some envy), and an Aziraphale dressed in armour that reminds Crowley an awful lot of Aziraphale at Wessex back in 537 A.D., although this Aziraphale is taller than him, and broader in shoulder.

“This is Arthur,” Anthony says with a jerk of his chin and a ghost of a smile around his lips. “Thought it fit him, seeing how _knightly_ he is. And this is—”

“Antonia.” The new Crowley interrupts, taking Anthony’s arm as she yawns behind a fan, all delicate black lace and lacquered wood, stretching her charcoal grey wings behind her. The angles of her face are softer than Crowley’s, and he catches a glimpse of the tiny serpent sigil on her nape, cleverly concealed by the low knot of her hair. Crowley nods in return and bites back the desire to ask her about the embroidery pattern on her skirt.

Arthur’s dark green eyes light up when he catches sight of Quetz, and it’s so familiar that it makes Crowley more than a little sick to his stomach. He glances at Anthony out of the corner of his eye and sees his own unrest clear in Anthony’s face—he has a good poker face, but Crowley notices the clench of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

“So that’s one pair down,” A.J. sighs. He’s not even trying to hide his longing as he looks over at Quetz, who’s slithered over with alarming speed and knocked Arthur to the ground, his armour clanking loudly. Arthur’s sitting up now with the signature Aziraphale smile on his face, a large pile of Quetz’s coils on his lap, watching curiously as Quetz calls Aeos over to meet him. “Will it be our turn soon, you think?”

Crowley doesn’t miss the way Anthony’s face darkens for a second before he turns to Antonia, eyebrow raised expectantly. “What do you think, gorgeous?”

Antonia’s dark lenses are small enough that Crowley can see how she rolls her eyes at Anthony. “You probably think you’re charming, but if you’re expecting me to return the compliment, you’re about to be terribly disappointed.”

“Not even the slightest,” Anthony says, smirking. “Now, _do_ _ña_ , you stay here and get acquainted with everyone, all right? It’s Crowley’s turn to play.”

Just then, Antonia catches sight of Ezra still sitting in the shade, watching them with eyes wide as saucers. “Why, who’s this?” Her face is alight with curiosity as she flicks her fan shut with a loud snap, right in Anthony’s face.

“Oh, that’s—”

She immediately drags Anthony over to be introduced before he can finish his sentence, and Crowley’s lips twitch at the way Ezra can’t seem to stop _staring_ at her, his face slightly flushed— he’s probably imagining his angel in that outfit, Crowley thinks to himself, and tries not to laugh.

“Glad I’ve got him off my back for a while,” A.J. says dryly behind him. “Antonia should keep him distracted for a bit, eh?”

“You mean Ezra?” Crowley sees how A.J.’s mouth is turned down at one corner at the sight of Antonia and Ezra chatting animatedly. Anthony gracefully extricates himself from Antonia’s grasp as Ezra offers her his arm. She settles down next to him, smoothing away a wrinkle on her skirt as Ezra starts peeling another orange for her. “You know, if you think about it… he’s not changed much, really.”

That seems to be exactly what’s bothering A.J., judging by the crease that’s deepening between his eyebrows. “I know, and that’s… It’s just—he’s hard to get used to. Which isn’t to say he’s awful or anything—well, all right, he’s a pain, but…”

“I know what you mean.” Crowley doesn’t need to think too hard about A.J.’s half-finished sentences—he can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for A.J. to show up at the bookshop to find that a demon had taken his angel’s place without any sort of explanation, but Anthony’s already sauntering towards them, eyebrow raised expectantly, and he isn’t sure how to explain himself any better. “Just give things with him another shot. You might be surprised,” Crowley adds over his shoulder, just before Anthony whisks him away.

—

They reappear in front of what is undoubtedly a greenhouse. Smack dab in the middle of central London. With a sign on the front lawn in unmistakably familiar calligraphy that simply says, “The Garden”.

“Huh,” Anthony says slowly. “I’m guessing this is…”

“Ezra’s angel.” Crowley swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his stomach is churning. “And if he’s anything like us, there’s no way we’re going to get in that greenhouse without him smiting us first.”

“You never know,” Anthony muses. “We _are_ him. In a way.”

“As much as I want to believe that a loophole will get us around his wards, I’d really rather hang on to this corporation, thanks.”

Anthony throws him a disdainful glance. “Are you scared?”

“I’m practical,” Crowley retorts. “Don’t be an idiot.”

A snort is all Crowley earns for his efforts. “Fine, I’ll go in first—”

“What the _Heaven_ is wrong with you?” Crowley grabs Anthony by the arm, holding him back from storming into the greenhouse. “Look, this isn’t some suicide mission we’re on, we’ve all got our own angels to find—”

Anthony wrenches his arm free from Crowley’s grasp. “Or maybe I’m just trying to get this over with, have you thought about that?”

Crowley flinches at the sudden venom in Anthony’s voice, and without further ado, Anthony walks up to the entrance and flings open the door—but to their surprise, a red-haired angel comes scuttling out, dragging him and Anthony clear off the property.

“What—”

The angel shushes Anthony immediately, his eyes wide. “Quiet!”

Crowley and Anthony obediently shut up, exchanging glances that clearly say _this one_ _’s just slightly off his rocker._ The angel looks over his shoulder nervously, before continuing in a whisper. “Look, I’ll let you in, but whatever you do, don’t freak Ez—Aziraphale out, all right?”

 _“What?”_ Crowley’s eyes dart to Anthony, who looks just as baffled as he feels. He clears his throat, trying to shove down the disquiet of looking at a mirror image of _himself,_ except this angel has strawberry blond curls tied back in a messy ponytail, a single white-gold lock of hair framing one side of his face. His soft brown eyes are filled with distress as his gaze flicks back and forth between Crowley and Anthony.

“Did something happen to him?” Anthony asks urgently.

The angel gestures wildly with his hands, looking over his shoulder. “He… he’s just a little on edge.”

Crowley privately thinks that if anyone’s on edge, it’s this angel with anxiety issues. “All right, we’ll be nice and quiet,” he says, ignoring the way Anthony blinks at him, looking offended at being expected to be _nice_. “We won’t give you any trouble, we’ll just be in and out with the Aziraphale who’s made it here.”

“Oh.” The angel looks bewildered. “You’re taking him with you?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Have you found Ezra?” The angel is clutching at Crowley’s arm now, and it takes all of his self-control not to recoil from his touch. “He… he just disappeared one day, and I don’t know what’s happened to him—”

“Yes, yes.” Anthony’s taken the angel’s hands in his, speaking in a soothing voice that sounds completely alien to Crowley’s ears. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how Anthony’s holding up being this close to a version of them that hasn’t lost his divinity. “He’s all right, we’ve found him. Just calm down.”

“Right. Calm down. I can do that.” The angel nods slowly, as though trying to gather his bearings. He takes a deep breath, grasping Anthony’s hands tightly before letting go. “Look, here’s the thing.” He pushes the errant white curl away from his face, distractedly tugging at the grey shirt he’s wearing. “I mean, it was shocking enough coming back here to find an angel Ezra in my garden. And that’s on top of the fact that Ezra’s been missing for at least two weeks now. But this Aziraphale…”

He says the angel’s name like it’s a word he’s only lately learned how to pronounce. Crowley swallows thickly, his whole body rigid with anticipation. “What?”

“The place where he’s from.” The angel casts another look over his shoulder and turns back to look at them, a sombre look on his face. “Armageddon has started. Properly, this time.”

“The second coming,” Anthony mutters with his teeth clenched together. “Or should I say the third?”

“Yeah, that,” the angel says, hurrying on. “He’s been driving himself up the wall trying to get back there—he’s practically torn apart Ezra’s library researching, but we haven’t found anything.”

“Well, we can help get him back to wherever he’s from,” Anthony says, his face set grimly. “The sooner, the better. For his Crowley’s sake, and for the Aziraphale who’s there with him.”

The angel nods. “Right.” He hesitates for a moment. “I-I’m Camiel, by the way. But you probably already knew that. Sorry,” he adds, looking crestfallen when Crowley and Anthony wince. “You can call me something else if you want.”

“No, s’fine,” Crowley mutters, exhaling sharply.

Anthony nods. “Just give us some time to get used to it, eh? Crowley here especially.” Crowley raises his eyebrows at him accusingly. _Me?_ Anthony cocks an eyebrow in return. _Yes, you._ “And you can call me Anthony.”

“Good to meet you both,” Camiel says, and tries to smile. “Guess we’d better get on with it, then.” He turns as though to lead them back through the gate, but at the last minute he turns back to face them, and the look on his face reminds Crowley a little of Aziraphale when he has something to say but doesn’t quite know how to put it into words.

“Spit it out, angel,” Anthony says, his voice soft. Crowley’s eyes widen at the appellation, and Camiel’s head whips up, his lips parted in surprise. “Go on.”

Camiel’s mouth moves for a moment, though he doesn’t make a sound. “Erm,” he says at last, tucking the loose curl behind his ear again. “Look, he… he might not be what you’re expecting, all right? I mean, he’s been through a lot. I don’t know what your angels are like, but this one, he’s—”

Suddenly, the air reverberates with a wave of divinity, making Crowley’s hairs stand on end—he would have called it fear if it hadn’t been so _familiar_ —Anthony steps in front of him, shielding him from sight as an angel appears in the doorway, his halo of ash brown hair cut short, his blue eyes burning brightly. 

“Oh,” Anthony says faintly, as though the air’s been knocked right out of his lungs.

Camiel raises a hand, his voice beseeching. “Aziraphale, wait—”

“Crowley,” the angel says, half in relief, half in despair, and the fire in his eyes dims with tears. He rushes forward, cupping Anthony’s face with both hands, tugging him down and kissing him as though his life depended on it. In the midst of Crowley’s shock, the absurd thought occurs to him that they’re doing a _very_ good imitation of that one scene from _Casablanca._

“What the Hell…” Camiel says weakly, looking as though his world has just been turned upside down. Crowley feels exactly the same. “But I thought—”

Anthony grips the angel’s wrists and breaks the kiss, pulling away slightly, his chest rising and falling with noticeably ragged breaths. “Wait, angel. You… you’ve got the wrong demon.”

“What do you mean, the wrong—” Crowley sees the exact moment the penny drops when the angel immediately lets go of Anthony, wringing his hands. “Oh, goodness—I’m terribly sorry, dear boy, I-I didn’t mean to, it’s just you look so _much_ like—”

“Your Crowley?” Anthony drawls, the tight smile on his face laced with agony. He really does a good job of hiding it, Crowley thinks, his own chest aching in sympathy. “You look an awful lot like my Aziraphale too, to be honest with you. You’re a little taller, though, and…” His hand comes up for a moment as though he’s about to touch the angel’s face, and a terrible look of anger crosses his face for a split second. Crowley realises with a start that this angel has a thin scar under his eye, running along his cheekbone from the bridge of his nose.

Luckily, the angel doesn’t seem to notice. “Good lord,” he murmurs, straightening Anthony’s tie for him, fussing over his lapels and ironing out the creases with his palms. “Do forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, angel. Though I’m quite relieved we stopped when we did.” Anthony winks at him before turning to Crowley with a knowing look on his face. What a _flirt_ he is, Crowley thinks, shaking his head. “Otherwise, Camiel and Crowley over here might have keeled over and discorporated without us noticing.”

Camiel squawks in protest, his face redder than his hair, stammering out a flood of sounds comprised solely of inarticulate vowels. “I’m _not_ … Y-you didn’t tell me!”

This accusation is levelled at the new Aziraphale, who looks politely puzzled. “Pardon me. I seem to have presumed it would be a similar situation all around.” He looks over Anthony’s shoulder curiously and meets Crowley’s gaze, smiling a little, and Crowley feels the heat rising to his cheeks. “I suppose it isn’t the case?”

“It isn’t,” Anthony confirms, a maddening smirk on his lips.

Crowley wants to sock him hard in the jaw. “ _Anyway,_ ” he says. “I’m guessing you’ve got a lot of questions, but we really have to get a move on.”

“Oh,” Camiel breaks in. “Can I come, too?”

Anthony turns to him, the surprise clear on his face. “What about your greenhouse? You don’t have to come, you can just wait for us to bring your demon back here. Though at the rate we’re going, it might take a bit of time. It won’t be anything for you to worry about, though.”

“No, I want to come,” Camiel says, sounding more resolute now than he has since they first met him. “I-I want to see Ezra.” He turns to the angel, a pleading look in his eyes.

“It won’t be a problem, I’m sure. Isn’t that right, my dear?” A look passes between the angel and Anthony before he turns back to Camiel with a reassuring smile. “Your Ezra is probably waiting for you too.”

“He is,” Crowley says suddenly, and he sees the way Camiel’s eyes widen slightly, hears the disbelieving intake of breath. “He is,” Crowley repeats, wanting Camiel to hear it, to understand—his Ezra is _waiting for him_. “Come with us.”

Camiel nods silently, looking as though he’s thinking hard. Crowley can practically see the gears turning in his mind, and he fervently hopes that he made the right decision speaking up for Ezra.

“Jolly good, then.” The angel nods decisively. “I have a Crowley waiting for me too, so if you don’t mind—”

“Of course,” Anthony says, and there it is again—Crowley sees the way Anthony pulls himself together, closing off whatever hurt he’s so carefully concealing from their sight, grinning at the angel as though he isn’t the spitting image of his own Aziraphale. “Shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to NaroMoreau as always for being such a wonderful beta for this fic! And to Jenanigans1209 for always throwing encouragement my way! ♥
> 
> Hoo boy, we're building up quite a crowd here, but I'm delighted there are so many people who are liking Ezra and Anthony because I LOVE THEM. Are there are any other versions of Aziraphale and Crowley you're hoping to see? Let me know, I'm really curious!
> 
> I'm (once again) extremely behind on replying to comments, but I'm absolutely thrilled with all of them, thank you so much for reading! Updates have been few and far between because of school but hopefully I'll be able to write a couple more chapters over the holidays!


	4. Nightfall in Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’s it been?” Crowley asks.
> 
> “This whole day’s gone about as well as you’d imagine.” A.J. tears his gaze away from Alexander, a troubled look on his face. He leans over and swipes a couple of grapes from Crowley, popping them into his mouth, grinning when Crowley glares at him. “After all this, I think I can safely say that everyone sitting around this fire has mastered the fine art of Never Talking About Anything That Matters Out Loud.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AraniaArt suggested that I add a cast of characters for you all, so here it is! They're marked with (C) and (A) so you know which ones are Crowleys and Aziraphales, and I included a couple of notes for some of the others - I hope this helps!
> 
> 1\. TV Omens: Crowley (C)  
> 2\. Radio Omens: Anthony (C)  
> 3\. Book Omens: A.J. (C)  
> 4\. Reverse Omens: Camiel (C) and [Ezra](https://twitter.com/xenoscientist/status/1338696425354514432) (A)  
> 5\. Medieval Omens: Quetz (C), short for [Quetzalcoatl,](https://www.ancient.eu/Quetzalcoatl/) the serpent deity in ancient Mesoamerica, and Arthur (A)  
> 6\. Eden Omens: Aeos (A)  
> 7\. Ineffable Wives: Antonia (C) – a lot of people were interested in what she was wearing, so [here’s what I was picturing](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/747292240145285122/789501725530390528/b721a0d8ede1424a3e97e4d81495a9d9.png)! My take on a _baro't saya_ (literally "blouse and skirt"), also called _traje de mestiza_. I imagine this would have been a scandalous outfit back in the day because she's wearing a men's top. A more traditional outfit would look like [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Clara_gown#/media/File:La_Bulaquena_by_Juan_Luna.jpg).

Night has fallen by the time Crowley and Anthony return to Eden with Camiel and the new Aziraphale, who after much debate has agreed to be called Alexander.

“Where are we, dear boy?” He asks in confusion. “I thought you’d be taking me back to my Crowley?”

Anthony sighs. “I wish we could. But we can’t, not yet at least…”

Crowley loses track of the conversation as Camiel wanders away from them, looking around at the garden with wonder at first, gently touching the leaves of an enormous rosebush in full bloom. But Crowley sees how he’s glancing around surreptitiously—looking for Ezra, he realises, and he follows Camiel as a quiet hum of voices leads them into a small clearing where everyone else has gathered around a small fire.

Antonia’s bickering cheerfully about temperate and tropical humidity levels with Arthur, who’s discarded his plate armour in favour of a more comfortable quilted jacket and trousers. Aeos is listening raptly, and Quetz is fast asleep with his head in Arthur’s lap and the end of his tail wrapped around Aeos’s waist.

A.J. is sitting next to Antonia and staring moodily into the fire, looking exhausted, and interestingly enough, so is Ezra. Predictably, neither of them are speaking to one another. Crowley sighs internally.

Camiel falters in the shadows for a few more seconds before finally plucking up the courage to step into the light. A large stick cracks under his foot. Everyone around the fire looks up.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

“Oh, angel. You’ve made it,” Ezra says at last, breaking the silence. He doesn’t move, and his voice sounds perfectly casual, but his green eyes are shining with joy. _He tends to be quite skittish,_ Crowley remembers, and his chest tightens, knowing how Ezra must be feeling—beyond elated to see his angel, but unable to do a single thing to show it. “Would you like to sit down?”

Camiel nods gratefully and makes his way into the little circle, collapsing into an ungainly heap of limbs next to Ezra. The silence stretches on and on, and the staring doesn’t let up—if anything, it only increases in intensity. Quetz has even pushed himself upright, expressionless and unmoving as a statue, the snakes on his head focusing all their razor-sharp attention on Camiel.

Just when Crowley decides he’d better break the tension and save Camiel from any more embarrassment, he registers raised voices somewhere behind him. Anthony and Alexander. Crowley sighs and turns on his heel, following the sound of their conversation.

The grass muffles the sound of Alexander’s agitated pacing. “… You don’t understand, I have to go back _—_ _”_

“We’re only going to end up disrupting everything even more than it already has been if we head back there now.” Anthony has been unyielding on this point from the beginning, without exception. They needed to find all the lost Aziraphales before anything else.

Alexander makes a frustrated sound. “I dare say I could make you, if I wanted to.” Crowley hears a soft grunt of pain.

“Put me down, angel,” Anthony says, his voice tight.

“If you don’t take me home now, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Anthony’s voice is sharp as a whip, and Crowley flinches and comes to a stop behind a large tree, scarcely daring to breathe. “How exactly do you intend to _make me,_ Aziraphale?”

Alexander gasps when he hears his name, and there’s a muted thud of something hitting the ground. Anthony’s panting hard, as though he’s trying to catch his breath, and a few moments pass before he speaks again. “We can’t afford to be rash now. You’re not…” He inhales slowly, as though steeling himself. “You’re not the only one who’s been separated from your Crowley. I know it’s not the same,” he says, talking over Alexander, who’s already begun to protest. “I know things are dangerous for you where you are. But we can’t risk anyone else getting torn apart.”

“But I can’t—” Alexander’s voice cracks. For some reason, Crowley’s beginning to feel as though he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be getting involved in. “What about Crowley?” There’s a second of silence broken by a sharp sniff that tugs painfully at Crowley’s heart. “I’ve left him there all alone _,_ he could be _dead_ for all I know—”

“You underestimate him,” Anthony interrupts. “ _And_ the Aziraphale who’s there with him. Maybe not every version of you has been specifically created to command an army the way you are. But it doesn’t make any of the others any less capable than you of doing the same, should the occasion demand it.”

“You don’t know that,” Alexander says brokenly. “You _don_ _’t._ ”

Anthony laughs, though there’s no mirth in it at all. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’ve got to have a little more faith. Do you really think he’d leave Crowley on his own?”

Alexander lets out a long breath. “I suppose not,” he concedes softly.

“That’s right. He wouldn’t, any more than you’d leave the Crowley you ended up with.”

“Of course I’d never.” Alexander says fiercely. There’s a long pause. “I’m so sorry, dear boy.”

“Do stop apologising to me, angel.” Anthony sighs quietly. “I already told you there’s nothing to forgive.”

Crowley tries not to fidget, wondering how he could leave now without being noticed. He’s not sure either of them would appreciate him overhearing this conversation—

“Come out, Crowley, we know you’re there,” Anthony says dryly.

There’s absolutely no reason to be embarrassed, Crowley tells himself, keeping the flush from spreading across his face with sheer force of will. He clears his throat before emerging from behind the tree. “Look, I heard you arguing, and—”

“We weren’t arguing.” Anthony’s mouth turns up at one corner—he looks almost remorseful, his eyes fixed on Alexander. “We’re doing just fine, aren’t we, angel?”

Alexander sighs, acquiescing. “Yes. Everything’s just…” He motions vaguely in the air. “You know. Tickety-boo.”

“The fastest way for us to get you back to your Crowley is for you to stay put for now.” Anthony scrubs a hand across his eyes, his face drawn and careworn in the moonlight. “I know you want to go back, but you’ll have to be a little more patient, all right?”

“Nothing is more difficult than having to _wait_ ,” Alexander says fretfully.

“That is absolutely true. And no one understands that better than Crowley here.” Anthony smirks at Crowley.

This time, there’s no stopping the heat that floods into Crowley’s face with that implication. “What exactly are you—”

“Oh, is that the time?” Anthony says loudly, gallantly tucking Alexander’s hand into the crook of his arm and leading him in the direction of the firelight. “We should get you properly introduced to everyone, angel.”

“Anthony!”

“Crowley!” Anthony says in a flawless imitation of Crowley’s tone. Crowley wants nothing more than to send him straight back to Hell. “I can’t believe you left Camiel there to fend for himself, how could you? Antonia would eat him alive.”

—

Alexander quietly settles down in a spot by the fire beside Camiel after the requisite round of introductions. Anthony sits next to him, with Aeos on his other side. There seems to be a tacit agreement not to ask about where Alexander comes from—there had been a chorus of furious hissing when the Crowleys saw the scar on Alexander’s face, thrown into sharp relief by the light of the fire. A single look from Anthony had caused the rapidly brewing storm to abate, though it had taken a long time for the terrifying burn of anger in Quetz’s eyes to cool.

Arthur and Ezra have cobbled together something like a meal between them, an inexplicable combination of olives and apples, bananas and pomegranates, oranges and grapes all assembled in a veritable cornucopia of Eden’s bounties in the centre of the little group. Crowley supposes it makes sense that Aziraphale in every universe is bound to be a snob about miracling up food—he grabs a handful of grapes for himself and goes to sit by A.J., who’s yawning widely.

“How’s it been?” Crowley asks.

“This whole day’s gone about as well as you’d imagine.” A.J. tears his gaze away from Alexander, a troubled look on his face. He leans over and swipes a couple of grapes from Crowley, popping them into his mouth, grinning when Crowley glares at him. “After all this, I think I can safely say that everyone sitting around this fire has mastered the fine art of Never Talking About Anything That Matters Out Loud.”

Crowley snorts, but he can still feel the tension that’s been simmering in the air ever since Alexander had sat down. “Oh, yeah. Look at us sitting here with our wings out, pretending like this isn’t some _incredibly_ weird slumber party.” He eats another grape, watching Antonia slyly poking fun at Quetz, whose tail is flicking impatiently. Crowley glances at Anthony, who’s turning an apple over in his hands, uncharacteristically silent for once. “Shame we can’t all get drunk right now, to be honest.”

“I had half a mind to get us some whiskey, or at least some decent wine, but Ezra wouldn’t hear of it. Said it would be a _sacrilege_.” A.J. huffs out a laugh. “Imagine a demon complaining about that.”

“Well, he’s not wrong, you know.”

A.J. pulls off his aviators and rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Guess we don’t have much use for these here,” he adds, examining them with a rueful look before tucking them safely away into his breast pocket.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, and for a moment, he forgets about whatever it is he’s agreeing to, distracted by the sight of Camiel talking quietly to Ezra with his eyes downcast, his fingers curled tightly around Ezra’s sleeve. Quetz has gone back to sleep with his head in Arthur’s lap, pointedly ignoring Antonia. She’s finally moved on to heckling Alexander about his military-issue haircut, though he looks more charmed by her than anything else.

“What a day. Could do with a bit of sssleep myself.” The hiss slips from A.J.’s tongue before he yawns once more, snapping his fingers to pull a black pillow out of the aether. “Think I’ll turn in. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day.” A.J. claps Crowley on the shoulder before getting to his feet. Crowley puts the last of the grapes in his mouth, barely tasting them, wondering what Aziraphale would think of all this if he were sitting by the fire next to Crowley.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Antonia says suddenly, reaching over and prodding Crowley with her fan. She, too, has removed her dark lenses, and her eyes are glowing golden in the firelight as she moves to take A.J.’s spot. “Care to share with the rest of the class?”

Crowley smiles despite himself. “What else do we ever think about?”

How odd that it’s so much easier to be honest, huddled together around this fire the way they are, or is it just because it’s easier knowing they’re all identical at the core? It isn’t as much of a struggle to find the words when he doesn’t have to worry about explaining himself.

Antonia hums, leaning forward to prop her chin up on her palm. “I suppose you’re right.” For a long moment, she stares at the flickering light, lost in thought. “How many more Aziraphales will you have to find, you think?”

“Who knows? Honestly, none of us really know what’s going on, not even Anthony.”

“He’s doing very well at pretending he does, then.” A glint of white catches Crowley’s eye, and he turns to see that Antonia has removed the pin from her hair, her black curls cascading down one shoulder.

Crowley doesn’t have a problem with the way he looks, but he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t have minded being assigned a corporation like hers. “I guess we’re all just trying to figure it out along the way,” he says at last, shrugging.

“Hope there aren’t too many left,” Antonia says, her voice low. “I don’t want to think of so many angels scattered everywhere. Or demons, I suppose,” she adds, glancing out of the corner of her eye at Ezra. “Though I don’t doubt they’d be well taken care of wherever they end up.”

“Yeah.” Crowley watches her turning over the pin in her hands—ivory, tipped with gold. A lovely thing, really. And an interesting choice of colour.

“Arthur was so hard to hide, you know,” she says suddenly. “I was lucky he showed up when I was alone. He would have been a shock to the humans, jangling around in all that armour.” She laughs quietly, running a finger over the delicate snake design etched on the surface of the ivory. “Caused a scandal, he did. Half the town wouldn’t stop talking about my handsome new _suitor._ ” She looks up at Arthur, who’s gently petting the snakes on Quetz’s head. “Not that I complained. He _is_ very handsome.”

“He is,” Crowley says, his lips twitching as he glances over at Arthur. Every version of Aziraphale is beautiful, nearly glowing from the inside out with all that unblemished Grace, but there’s something unbelievably magnetic about Arthur’s smile and the way he carries himself with such certainty (though Crowley privately thinks that none of them could hold a candle to the way Aziraphale’s eyes light up when he sees his favourite chocolate gateau on a restaurant menu).

Arthur catches sight of Antonia laughing at him. She sticks her serpent's tongue out at him as he frowns in mock disapproval, shaking his head.

“Well, I shan’t bother you anymore. Get some shut-eye if you can. Maybe convince him to do the same,” she says, her eyes flicking in Anthony’s direction before she moves back next to Arthur. She nudges him with her elbow, bantering with him under her breath with a mischievous look on her face. Arthur responds in kind, setting Antonia off into a fit of giggles behind her fan.

 _Hush,_ Quetz says suddenly without moving, and they subside, shaking with silent laughter before Antonia rearranges her skirt on the ground and lies down with her head on Arthur’s other thigh. He smooths a hand through her hair gently, and one of the snakes on Quetz’s head noses at her cheek affectionately before settling back down into sleep.

Arthur looks up and sees Crowley watching them. “I’d offer to be a pillow for you too, dear boy, but I’m afraid we’re all out of room for tonight,” he murmurs, looking apologetic.

Crowley shakes his head, pressing his lips together, fervently hoping his expression doesn’t betray how strangely broken open he feels. “S’fine, angel. Are you comfortable?”

“Quite comfortable, thank you,” he says, laying a hand on Quetz’s chest with a small smile on his face.

With a sigh, Crowley curls in on himself, resting his arms on his knees. He sees Anthony stretch out on the ground, one arm under his head, and in a matter of minutes, his soft snores begin to fill the clearing, just slightly audible over the crackling of the fire. Aeos scoots a few inches closer and lifts his left wing, and after a long moment of hesitation, he gently settles it over Anthony as he sleeps.

A light touch on Crowley’s shoulder startles him out of his reverie. “Get some rest, darling,” Ezra says softly, putting a small pillow into his arms. Crowley’s eyebrows lift when he sees the tartan pattern in the light of the flames, dark blue and grey with thin lines of red, and makes a small sound in his throat that’s meant to be a laugh, but ends up somewhere nearer to a sob. His hands grip the pillow tightly, and he’s grateful he hasn’t taken his sunglasses off like the others have. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Camiel already sound asleep, wrapped in a thick blanket in an identical tartan pattern.

“It’s all right. You can sleep now,” Alexander says quietly, settling on the ground next to Crowley. A large hand covers Crowley’s lightly with its warmth, squeezing once before letting go. A soldier’s hand, Crowley thinks, strong and callused, but still well-kept. “We’ll keep watch.”

Crowley nods wordlessly, his throat too tight to speak. He fluffs up the pillow and lies down on his back, blinking hard behind the safety of his sunglasses. It takes a long while before the lump in his throat goes away.

“That can hardly be comfortable. May I?”

A hand hovers over Crowley’s face. For a moment, he’s too surprised to react, but he eventually nods and allows his glasses to be lifted off his face.

“I’ll hold onto them for you, shall I?”

“You don’t have to—”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Crowley turns on his side, staring at the fire, his face suddenly warm. He watches as Ezra tucks a blanket carefully around Antonia, before shaking out an extra large one to cover Quetz’s enormous coils. He offers one to Arthur, who smiles and shakes his head, silently mouths _no, thank you._ Ezra murmurs something quietly to Aeos, who ducks his head bashfully as Ezra laughs under his breath.

“Morning will come sooner if you close your eyes, you know,” Alexander says.

“Oh, erm. Right.” Crowley squirms, trying to get comfortable. He’s exhausted, but he can’t seem to fall asleep. He turns onto his other side, facing away from the flickering of the flames. To his surprise, he sees Ezra hesitating for a long moment over A.J.’s sleeping form before gently draping a blanket around him, his hand lingering on A.J.’s shoulder.

 _Idiots._ Crowley sighs and rolls onto his back. The sky is clear tonight, and even the half-moon’s pale light isn’t enough to eclipse the glitter of the stars. He wonders if Aziraphale is seeing these same stars, wherever he is. Are timezones a thing across universes? Surely the planets still orbit around the sun at the same speed and distance? He’s already mentally running through the calculations before— _oh_.

He tenses suddenly. There are fingers tangling through his hair, and the sensation is almost unnervingly pleasant. His limbs are going boneless, and a soft sigh escapes through his lips entirely without his permission.

“That’s quite enough thinking for one day, dear boy,” Alexander says, bending over him with an amused smile on his face. “Perhaps you could tell me what’s on your mind, if that would help you.”

A garbled sound leaves Crowley’s throat as Alexander’s fingers pass through his hair once more. The locked box of Thoughts To Deal With Later is crammed so full that he can barely keep the lid closed. “The stars,” he says instead, lest the box’s contents spill through his lips. “S’been a while since I’ve seen them this clearly.”

Alexander hums, leaning back to look up at the sky. “They’re lovely,” he agrees, and his fingers press gently into a spot above the serpent’s mark on Crowley’s face that pulls another sigh out of him. “Do you have a favourite one?”

“I… yeah. I do,” Crowley mutters. Alexander’s nails scratch lightly across his scalp, and his eyelids are fluttering shut of their own accord. “Alpha Centauri.”

“Oh, yes.” The fingers still for a moment in Crowley’s hair. He cranes his neck to look at Alexander, but he’s still gazing at the stars, his tone carefully light.

“Sorry,” Crowley says uncertainly. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Alexander hastens to reassure him, carefully brushing a lock of hair away from Crowley’s forehead. “Something you share in common with my own Crowley, that’s all. And it is a beautiful star.”

“Not just one,” Crowley says, his words slurring slightly together as his tongue splits into its forked shape for a second. “S’got a binary star system, angel.”

“Forgive me.” Alexander chuckles quietly, gently petting Crowley’s hair once more. “You’re quite right.”

“Visual binary star,” Crowley adds under his breath, his eyes already closed. “Orbiting so closely together that to the naked eye, they appear to be a single star.” His hands move automatically, remembering what it was like to hold the blinding heat in the space between his palms, giving it shape and form. He can see the stars so clearly in his mind, the gas and smoke and particles of dust swirling together in space, catching the light in a vast, endless spectrum of colours blending seamlessly into one another.

“And you hung them so beautifully, darling.” Crowley cracks an eye open to see Ezra kneeling beside him with a fond smile on his face, unfolding the last of the hideous tartan blankets and enveloping Crowley in its warmth.

“Tartan blankets.” Crowley tries to inject as much sarcasm as he can into the words, but he’s too comfortable to really mean it. “Tartan pillows.”

“Tartan is stylish,” Ezra says, affronted.

“I prefer argyle myself, to be honest,” Alexander muses.

The blanket is so _soft._ It smells of vanilla and lavender and something that reminds him of the smell of Aziraphale’s first editions, with an undertone of something pleasantly dark and smoky. The drowsiness is weighing heavily on Crowley now, and his eyelids slide shut of their own accord.

This is an embarrassment of care being lavished on him in spades, so much it’s nearly overwhelming, more than he could have ever imagined receiving—he’d be thoroughly mortified if he weren’t so exhausted. In a moment of weakness, he allows himself to picture that perhaps there would come a time that Aziraphale would tuck him into their bed and run his thumb over the jagged crags of Crowley’s face. Just like this, Crowley thinks, leaning into the gentle touch on his cheek, his breathing already coming slow and even. This is all he wants.

“Thanks,” Crowley says softly. To no one. To all of them.

A voice whispering "Good night, dear boy,” is the last thing Crowley hears, and he imagines for a moment that he feels the warmth of Aziraphale’s lips pressed to his forehead like a benediction before at last, he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some softness as an early present! Hope your holidays are wonderful, all the love and warmth from me to all of you <3


	5. Apocalypse Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A burst of anger courses through Crowley’s entire being at the sound of the angel’s name in Sandalphon’s mouth—he finds himself on his feet, pulling Anthony by the arm behind him as he spreads his wings wide. “You _dare_ ,” he spits out. “You don’t deserve to say that name,” and he’s raising his arms, summoning every last bit of his power, pulling hellfire out of the earth, razing everything around them with searing heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for injury and violence in this chapter, but nothing explicit!
> 
> Here's a quick rundown of our cast so far - no new additions from last chapter since they spent it being soft around the fire:
> 
> 1\. TV Omens: Crowley (C)  
> 2\. Radio Omens: Anthony (C)  
> 3\. Book Omens: A.J. (C)  
> 4\. Reverse Omens: Camiel (C) and Ezra (A)  
> 5\. Medieval Omens: Quetz (C) and Arthur (A)  
> 6\. Eden Omens: Aeos (A)  
> 7\. Ineffable Wives: Antonia (C)  
> 8\. Apocalypse Omens: Alexander (A)
> 
> Thank you as always to Jenanigans1207 and NaroMoreau for all the 2 am discussions of the most feral headcanons imaginable, and the general screaming and encouragement.

The warmth wrapped around Crowley makes it near impossible to wake. He sighs, unwilling to open his eyes. Slowly, the events of the last twenty-four hours start trickling back into his memory, forcing him out of his dreams.

Oh, but he’s so comfortable _._ Five more minutes. Possibly five more hours. He snuggles down under the blanket, basking in its warmth—and his eyes fly open when he realises that the heat isn’t just coming from the blanket, there’s _someone_ pressed against him, an arm wrapped around his waist.

“Hey,” a drowsy voice says right next to his ear. “It’sss too early, stop squirming.”

“What the—” Crowley twists around and finds Anthony half-asleep next to him under the blanket, dark hair splayed out over the tartan pillow. “Anthony, you blessed snake—”

“Language,” Anthony murmurs, tugging Crowley closer. “Be quiet, I’m trying to sleep.”

Crowley bats at him, squawking in protest. “Get _off_ me!”

Anthony cracks one slitted eye open. “Look, I just didn’t want to bother Aeos. Felt like I was taking advantage of him.”

“You’re taking advantage of _me_ right now!”

“Am I, though?” Anthony’s mouth curves up into a smirk. “Are you really going to tell me that you’ve never thought about what it might be like to sleep with yourself?”

Crowley freezes, suddenly registering the fact that there are only a scant four inches separating their faces. “Anthony, what are you—”

“Not denying it, I see,” Anthony says, and inches even closer. “Can’t tell me you haven’t, can you?”

A truly embarrassing noise leaves Crowley’s mouth as he starts to panic. “I wouldn’t—”

“My, my, Crowley,” Anthony says, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “When I said sleep _,_ I _meant_ sleep. One can only wonder where your filthy mind went—”

“Oh, _shut up._ _”_ Crowley’s hands are on Anthony’s chest, trying to push him away, but to no avail. Anthony’s simply watching him, his lips twitching. His arm is still tight around Crowley’s waist.

“It’s a shame Downstairs didn’t issue you a corporation closer to mine, don’t you think? Not that I have any objections to this slender, wispy look you’ve got going on.”

“You’re unbearable,” Crowley groans. “You just wait until your Aziraphale hears about this—”

Anthony laughs, but inexplicably enough, it rings empty in Crowley’s ears. “First of all, if he were here, he’d probably have front-row seats to the show. Second—”

A voice suddenly interrupts. “If you two are done canoodling…”

Crowley’s head jerks up to see A.J. standing over them, his eyebrow raised. “We are not _canoodling_ ,” he says immediately, blushing so hard his face is burning hot. “Anthony’s holding me hostage, just _look_ at him, the bloody idiot—”

“Hey, baby, don’t be like that,” Anthony drawls, winking roguishly at him before finally letting go and allowing Crowley to extricate himself, wriggling frantically out of Anthony’s arms and throwing the blanket off himself.

A.J. snickers. “C’mon, stop messing around. You’re making Aeos have _thoughts_. Woe betide his Crawly when he gets here.”

“At least tell me the other Aziraphales are enjoying themselves,” Anthony says, rolling over on his back and grinning up at A.J.

“Judging by the way they’re all trying their utmost best to make stilted conversation under the apple tree, it’s a yes from me,” A.J. says. “Antonia’s been dying to wake Crowley up for ages just to see the look on his face.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Crowley says, scrubbing at his face tiredly. “Can’t a demon have a moment of _peace?_ _”_

“What kind of demons would we be if we didn’t try our hardest to plague you to the best of our abilities?” A.J. says, grinning.

“And who’d know who to plague you better than yourself?” Anthony’s hand snakes up Crowley’s arm, and he swats him away with a yelp. Anthony laughs, exchanging a sly glance with A.J. “Anyway, since I’ve been so _rudely_ awakened, we may as well get a move on. Crowley first, then you can take a turn later?”

A.J. nods. “Suits me.” He sits on top of the blanket next to Crowley, a pensive look on his face. “Listen. I’ve been thinking about Alexander. We’re going to end up going to wherever he came from at some point. Shouldn’t we have some sort of plan for that?”

Anthony sighs. “We should, but we’d probably have to sit down and talk to him about it, too. Get a better idea of what to expect.”

“I’ll do that while you’re gone,” A.J. says. He rubs at his face in a gesture mirroring Crowley’s own. “Keep you posted when you get back. I mean, chances are one in a million that’s where you’ll end up next, right?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Anthony sits up, yawning. Somehow, his hair is still immaculately styled despite having just woken up. Crowley self-consciously runs his hand through his own hair. “Hold the fort for us in the meantime.”

—

Crowley finds himself in the midst of a crowd of humans with Anthony on the rooftop of a building. Most of the humans are well on their way to drunk. He pulls out his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them on quickly. Best not to attract too much attention.

“Where the Hell are we?” The humans are in costume for some reason—right next to him, there’s a woman with dark hair in a voluminous dress that reminds Crowley of that human that hit his beloved car with her bicycle.

“Looks like a Halloween party.” Anthony shrugs. “Guess our Crowley’s in this crowd somewhere.” Crowley can tell he’s concentrating as he peers above the sea of humans, but his forehead creases in confusion after just a few moments. “He… isn’t here? Or I can’t find him, if he is.”

“Concealing himself, you think?” Crowley stands on his tiptoes, craning his neck. Anthony’s got the advantage of a few inches on him, and it’s more difficult for him to see anything in this press of bodies. “Got to find him the old-fashioned way, then.”

Anthony groans. “Should we split up, you think? We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Fine. Meet back here in—”

The woman next to Crowley turns without warning, and her eyes widen as she clutches at his hand. He almost flinches before he recognises her—it _is_ her. _Book girl,_ he remembers. Agnes Nutter’s great-great-grandkid. “I thought I heard your voice,” she says, her eyes bright with wine. “Saw that man you were talking to, _very_ cute,” she adds confidentially, shaking his arm. He tries to pull free, but her grip is like iron. “Wait… why’d you change out of your costume?” She looks up at him, dismayed. “I worked so hard to find you those wings!”

“I-I spilled my drink on them?” Crowley offers weakly, but somewhere in the periphery he hears a snap of fingers, and just as suddenly she lets him go and begins talking to the man standing behind her—oh, it’s the other human who was with her at the airbase, Crowley realises, the one with glasses and a dorky haircut. She’s ignoring Crowley completely now, as though he isn’t even there.

“That was weird.” Anthony appears beside her, a fierce scowl on his face, but she takes no notice of him either. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. But at least we know Crowley’s here somewhere.”

“In wings, she said,” Crowley adds. “He’s in costume too?”

“Looks like it. Come on, we’d better look for him together.” Anthony shoves a beer into Crowley’s hand and prods him forward into the crowd. “He must look like you if that human recognised you, so keep your eyes peeled.”

Crowley absentmindedly takes a swig, pushing through the humans with Anthony close behind him. The place is packed, the music loud and raucous—the Crowley here wouldn’t be in this crowd, he’d probably be off in a corner brooding. He grabs Anthony’s arm and pulls him out of the crowd, to a slightly quieter spot next to the fire exit stairwell.

 _There,_ Crowley thinks, and nudges Anthony. They duck into the fire exit, leaving the door slightly ajar to watch the new Crowley. Absurdly enough, he’s dressed in white and wearing honest-to-goodness _angel wings_ of all things, hands clasped around a bottle, awkwardly looking around at the crowd—he keeps tugging at the straps around his shoulders.

Anthony frowns. “He sure looks like you, only—”

“Hazel eyes, darker hair,” Crowley finishes. “Is he _actually_ an angel? Bit tongue-in-cheek for a costume, that is.”

“No.” Anthony’s gaze is unblinking, fixed on the winged figure, and his voice sounds odd when he speaks again. “I think… he’s human.”

_“What?”_

“You heard me. His eyes. Look at them. They’re _human._ ” Anthony runs a hand through his hair in agitation. “I didn’t anticipate anything like this. I thought Camiel and Ezra would be the biggest surprise, but—a human version of us? Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it. It’s not right, he can’t be… _how_ could he be human?”

“Beats me,” Crowley mutters. “Hang on, look—is that Aziraphale behind him?”

“Dressed as a _demon—_ ” Anthony snickers. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose. I see what you mean about this whole debacle being a bit too tongue-in-cheek.”

The angel Crowley has inadvertently bumped into the demon Aziraphale, and it looks as though they’re making each other’s acquaintance, judging by the way they’re looking sidelong at each other and blushing. For fuck’s sake, does he always look that pathetic? Crowley’s feeling uncomfortably hot from the secondhand embarrassment.

“They’re definitely both human,” Anthony sighs. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Crowley concentrates, reaching out towards them, probing for any sort of demonic or ethereal aura, but there’s… nothing. Not even a tell-tale sign of a concealment or glamour, like the one Anthony had worn when he had attacked Crowley the first time they’d met. “What do we do now?”

“No idea. We definitely can’t take them with us if they’re human, though. They won’t survive the journey.”

“We can’t just leave them,” Crowley hisses.

“I don’t think we have any choice.” Anthony shakes his head. “Look, when I get the chance, I’m going to try talking to one of them, all right?”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. And then we go back to Eden, I guess.”

There’s nothing to be done but wait by the fire exit for a while longer. They watch the Crowley and Aziraphale openly laughing, flirting even—Crowley wonders what that must be like, to be free of the fear of Heaven and Hell constantly hovering by their shoulders. He can feel Anthony eyeing him for a long moment, though he says nothing, only slips out quietly when the human Crowley leaves to get drinks at the bar.

He watches as Anthony sidles up to the human Aziraphale, all devious charm, pulling a beer out of the aether behind his back and offering it to Aziraphale. He’s clearly interested, going by the way his eyes brightened when Anthony approached, but he holds up his hands apologetically— _sorry,_ Crowley can see him mouthing the words, _I_ _’m waiting for someone—_ and Anthony backs off with good grace, but keeps up the conversation nevertheless. Crowley sees Aziraphale’s face shift from curious interest to something more guarded, as though he’s suddenly growing wary of Anthony and his wicked smirk.

Just then, the human Crowley reappears, frowning first at Anthony then at Aziraphale, clearly asking, _is this guy bothering you?_ Anthony finally leaves them be, sauntering away to rejoin Crowley in the darkness of the stairwell.

“What was that all about?” Crowley demands. “Why did you make Aziraphale look like that?”

Anthony laughs. “Hey, I’m helping his Crowley along. Give him a chance to play the hero. He loves that,” he adds slyly. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“So would you,” Crowley retorts. “Fuck, look at him _preening._ Do I look like that?”

“We’ll find out soon enough, I expect,” Anthony says, grinning. “When I finally get to meet your angel.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, gives in. “All right, all right. What did he tell you?”

“Well, I’m certain this Aziraphale’s human,” Anthony says. “They just met a few minutes ago, him and his Crowley. If they’re both human, that explains why Crowley’s all friendly with book girl over there.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the bar. “What puzzles me is… Don’t you think it’s strange that this Crowley just so happens to be friends with her? And that she’s still got that man of hers with her, the one from the airbase, you recognise him?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees quickly. “I did.”

“It’s suspicious, is what I think,” Anthony mutters. “The only thing I can think of is—no, forget it. It’s stupid.”

“What?”

Anthony lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Could they have been, I don’t know… turned human?”

“That’s impossible.” Crowley exhales sharply.

“Well, it’s like I said,” Anthony says, slouching against the door. “Stranger things have happened.”

—

Anthony takes off with A.J. not long after they return to Eden, leaving Crowley to explain the absence of new additions. He doesn’t miss the way Antonia and Alexander look away, nor the way Arthur reaches reflexively for Quetz’s hand, or the quick exchange of glances between Ezra and Camiel.

“Human,” Arthur whispers. “Is that even possible?”

 _It is possible, but it is forbidden, for it comes at an unimaginable price._ Quetz’s tail curls protectively around Aeos, whose eyes are wide with fear. _I have only heard it spoken of once. I do not think it has ever been attempted. It requires_ _… an alliance, you might call it, between an archangel and a prince of Hell._

“An alliance,” Alexander spits out, turning away. “We know exactly what they are capable of.”

A knot of worry is forming at the pit of Crowley’s stomach, but he can’t let everyone get worked up now, not when they still have such a long way to go. “Could be true, but who’s to say they aren’t simply human? Stranger things have happened,” he says, echoing Anthony’s words. “We’ve got enough to worry about.”

Arthur nods. “Let’s not go asking for more trouble.”

Slowly, the group subsides into something resembling calm, though Crowley can feel the tension still simmering in the air. Antonia is huddled silent as stone, running her fingers reflexively over the lace of her fan, though Ezra has a hand on her shoulder, speaking to her quietly. Camiel’s gotten to his feet, looking over at where Alexander has strode off into the bushes alone. He turns and catches Crowley’s eye, his gaze troubled.

—

“Hey,” Crowley says, hovering behind Alexander awkwardly. He’s standing in a patch of midday sun, his outstretched wings so pristine they’re nearly glowing in the light. Crowley has to remind himself that he, too, is Aziraphale, as different as they might seem—Alexander is significantly bulkier than his Aziraphale, not to mention the commanding air about him that was more than just his physicality—he remembers suddenly that Alexander is a proper soldier, trained for leading Heaven’s troops into battle. “You all right?”

Alexander’s wings relax somewhat, folding up against his back. He sighs, pinching his nose between his fingers before he turns around. “Listen, Crowley,” he says abruptly, not answering the question. “I don’t suppose you had a chance to speak to A.J. before he and Anthony left?”

“No,” Crowley says slowly. “Why?”

“There’s something you ought to know. About what happened where I came from.” Alexander takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “Camiel told you that the War has started, hasn’t it? The second one. The real Armageddon.”

“Yeah. But nothing else beyond that.”

“After my Crowley and I averted the Apocalypse, we discovered that we weren’t the only angel and demon who had… an Arrangement, if you take my meaning.” He glances at Crowley, who’s too surprised to do more than nod. “They came to us afterwards. Tried to find out how we had done it, in the hope they could do it too. Lesser demons and angels, yes, but also powerful ones. Michael and Ligur, most significantly.” He smiles wearily as Crowley’s mouth drops open. “My Crowley made it to the airbase thanks to Ligur. I suppose even then he knew about the two of us, and felt some sort of kinship because of it. It was the least we could do to help them.”

“And then what?” Crowley whispers, his gaze riveted on the angel and the scar under his cheek.

“It didn’t take long for word to reach Gabriel’s ears. Little did we know that while we were slowly gathering together a group of angels and demons, he was doing the same with Beelzebub…” Alexander sighs. “Raising a force of Heaven and Hell against Earth. There was an open assault. They caught us completely unaware.”

Crowley doesn’t know what to say. He has a two-second internal debate with himself before he manages to reach out and touch Alexander lightly on the shoulder. The angel smiles, but doesn’t meet his gaze.

“You don’t have to talk about it anymore if it’s too much,” Crowley says softly.

Alexander shakes his head. “No, you have to know. And I told A.J. this too—you already know my Crowley resembles Anthony, enough that it was a shock for me to see him. Of course now I know they aren’t quite the same… well, that’s a subject for another time.”

“Why does it matter that they look alike?”

It takes a few seconds before Alexander speaks again. “Crowley, if you ever end up wherever my Crowley is, you will be in the middle of a war zone.” His voice is flat, face completely blank. “You will have to be prepared at all times, do you understand? A second of distraction could be fatal. From what I have seen of the other Crowleys, many of them resemble you. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, puzzled at the abrupt shift in topic. “What does this have to do with—”

“My Crowley, he—” Alexander swallows hard. “They caught him during the first assault. He was badly injured—not only his corporation, but his demonic essence was damaged. I was very lucky to get away with only this.” He motions to his face, and Crowley understands now with dawning horror that it was inflicted by a weapon of Hell, one that holy power couldn’t fully heal. “He saved me, but at great cost to himself. He’s never fully recovered from it. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Crowley says, his throat dry. It would give Anthony a shock to see a demon who was essentially a mirror image of himself damaged beyond repair by divine wrath, and if they were caught off-guard at a bad moment… “I’ll look after him. After them. Don’t worry.”

The lines of exhaustion on Alexander’s face soften into affection. “My dear boy. I don’t want to put such a burden on you, but neither do I want you to walk into that situation unaware. You must have some idea of what you’re about to face.”

Crowley nods. “Thank you for telling me.” To his surprise, he’s swept into a bone-crushing embrace—he makes a muffled noise of astonishment, every muscle in his body tense, before he relaxes and buries his face in Alexander’s neck.

“Oh, my dear,” Alexander sighs, his voice a low rumble against Crowley’s chest. “I couldn’t bear the thought of any of you getting hurt.” He holds Crowley a moment longer before pulling away slightly to look Crowley in the eye. “You will promise me not to take any ridiculous chances. Not even if it is _your_ Aziraphale you’ll find there. I’m certain he would agree with me, if he knew.”

Crowley’s heart clenches. He’s heard that steely tone in Aziraphale’s voice before, and he recognises it in Alexander’s voice now. “I don’t know if I can promise you that, angel,” he says, the words barely audible, _angel_ slipping from his lips before he can think better of it.

“You must.” Alexander’s hands tighten on his shoulders. “You will not sacrifice yourself. Promise me.”

“I…” Crowley has to shut his eyes before he can say it, but it’s like choking to speak the words. “I promise.”

—

Anthony and A.J. return with a new pair in tow. A dark-haired Crowley in a tightly buttoned-up suit and full beard and moustache, immediately recognisable as Warlock’s tutor Mr. Harrison, and an Aziraphale dressed in a lace blouse with an elaborate collar and sleeves like wings, a long skirt in a rich shade of blue.

The angel’s eyes light up when she sees Antonia—but oddly enough, Antonia sits frozen in a way that reminds Crowley strongly of a deer caught in the headlights.

“Hi, angel,” Antonia manages.

“This angel goes by Aurélia,” A.J. mutters to Crowley. “Apparently she and Antonia had some sort of disagreement or something before they got separated. Involved one of them flouncing off after a tiff. You know how it is.”

Crowley muffles a laugh. “That explains Antonia’s face. Guess she’s wondering if Aurélia’s done being angry.”

“Well, we’ve all been there,” A.J. says, grinning. “Seems like she is, at least.” He sighs as Aurélia rushes over to Antonia, takes her hands with obvious relief. Crowley rolls his eyes and gets an elbow in the ribs for it. “Hey,” A.J. says sternly. “No one’s allowed to mock any other Crowley for missing their Aziraphale.”

“Quite right,” Anthony adds, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and clapping A.J. on the shoulder. “Least of all you, Crowley.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crowley demands.

Anthony just raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you win the grand prize where pining is concerned.” He talks right over Crowley’s outraged sputtering noises. “Anyway, we really ought to get going, don’t you think?”

—

Every last one of Crowley’s senses starts buzzing like alarm bells the moment that he and Anthony reappear in a clearing full of scorched tree trunks. He hauls Anthony off into a miraculously untouched clump of bushes, his heart beating hummingbird-fast in his chest.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, the screams in the distance ringing in his ears. _You will be in the middle of a war zone._ Alexander’s words are resounding in his mind. _A second of distraction could be fatal._

“Anthony,” he manages to say around the fear caught in his throat. “Please tell me you’ve found the Crowley here.”

Crowley turns to look at Anthony, whose golden eyes are wide, pupils dilated with panic in a way Crowley’s never seen before. “Right,” he says, his breathing quick and fast in his chest. “We have to find Crowley.” He shuts his eyes just as a group of lesser demons comes upon them—Crowley banishes them with nothing but a thought, pulling a film over their eyes as Anthony’s brow furrows in concentration.

Anthony’s golden eyes snap open, and he pulls himself up, his hand tight on Crowley’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says urgently. “Stay behind me.”

Crowley focuses every last inch of his power into keeping them cloaked behind a glamour. It’s enough to keep them shielded from the gaze of the angels and demons that they pass as they hurry through the woods, ducking behind the foliage for cover.

“Wait, Crowley,” Anthony says, gasping for breath as he and Crowley collapse behind an enormous clump of pines. “Something’s wrong.”

“You _think?_ _”_ Crowley says incredulously, the ringing shout of agony of a dying angel in the near distance. “Do you have any fucking idea what kind of understatement that is?”

“No, no, listen,” Anthony says, trying to catch his breath. “The Crowley of this universe, he’s hurt.”

Crowley’s blood turns to ice in his veins. “How do you know?” His heart is pounding hard against his ribs. “What do you mean, he’s hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Anthony’s eyes clench shut, the lines around his eyes and mouth tightening as though in pain. “I can feel it, but I don’t know what’s wrong. He’s hurt. We have to get to him _now._ _”_

Crowley blesses under his breath. “Listen, I can only do so much to keep us concealed, so don’t do anything _stupid,_ you hear me?”

“Stupid? It’s like you’ve never met me.” Anthony huffs out a laugh as Crowley pulls him to his feet. “Master of foolproof plans, I am.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, is what you are,” Crowley retorts. “I mean it, Anthony. Don’t be stupid. It’s not worth the risk.”

“All right, I hear you.” Anthony’s grinning, but it looks more like a grimace than anything else. “Can you keep us hidden for a little longer? The Crowley here—he’s quite near now, but something tells me he might not take kindly to seeing us.”

“What do you mean?”

Anthony shakes his head, as though trying to clear it. “He’s…”

There’s a loud bolt of divine energy nearby, the proximity close enough to set Crowley’s skin singing with pain. His heart is pounding painfully in his chest. “Anthony, we have to _go—_ _”_

He drags Anthony to his feet and slings his arm around his shoulders, wrapping an arm around Anthony’s waist—he doesn’t understand why Anthony seems nearly catatonic, barely breathing. “Anthony, you sodding idiot, listen to me,” he hisses under his breath, pulling them further inland. “You’re going to have to wake up and tell me where we’re going, because I don’t know a bloody thing about where we are—”

Crowley winces as another bolt of energy lands nearby, the heat scorching against his face. Anthony’s heavy against him, barely breathing. “Anthony, can you hear me?”

Suddenly, Anthony jerks back into full consciousness with a sharp inhale. “Oh, _fuck,_ Crowley, come on,” he says, tugging Crowley along as they run at full tilt behind an abandoned building, their breathing loud in the silence. “The Crowley here, he’s hurt,” Anthony repeats, clutching a stitch in his chest. “I can feel it. I can literally _feel_ it—”

A loud cry rips itself from Anthony’s throat as he falls to his knees. “There, just past those trees,” he chokes out. “Crowley, you have to get us there right fucking _now_ —”

Crowley seizes him, gathering up his energy, screwing his eyes shut with the sheer effort of it—

They reappear in a small clearing, and Crowley’s eyes immediately light on a demon lying prone in the centre, gasping in agony, his dark grey wings scorched and bleeding. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat in shock.

“That’s him—”

There’s a high ringing sound in the ear that Crowley recognises as the sound of holy power called from the heavens, and he barely avoids a smiting as he drags Anthony and himself to the injured Crowley, who’s unable to move, shivering with pain.

“Is he going to be all right?” Crowley says urgently, scanning their surroundings. “Anthony!”

“He is,” Anthony says, his voice barely a rasp in his throat. “But his wings—”

“There you are,” a sanctimoniously pleased voice interrupts, and Crowley just barely has a second to react, diverting the strike of divine fire against them with a wave of his arm. It’s much stronger than he thought it would be, and he staggers, falling on his knees as Sandalphon appears before them. His teeth are shiny with gold, eyes glowing with holy fury. A shudder of fear runs through Crowley. This is the angel that destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah in one fell swoop, he remembers dimly, and he kneels next to the fallen Crowley as Anthony lurches unsteadily to his feet, breathing hard.

“Sandy,” he says casually, though Crowley can hear the thread of apprehension running through his voice. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I’m calling your bluff, demon.” Sandalphon’s baring his teeth at them in an approximation of a grin. “I’d say it’s time to meet your Maker, but let’s face it. You aren’t even going to have that small mercy.”

“Thank God,” Anthony retorts, and Crowley’s faintly impressed that Anthony can still find it in himself to blaspheme at a moment like this. “I’d hate for Her to see me like this—can’t a demon have a moment to freshen up, at least?”

Sandalphon snickers. “You’ve always had a smart mouth on you.” He raises his hands, and the crackle of holy power that runs through the air is enough to make Anthony nearly lose his balance. “Say your prayers. We’ll make sure to pass them along to the traitor Aziraphale for you.”

A burst of anger courses through Crowley’s entire being at the sound of the angel’s name in Sandalphon’s mouth—he finds himself on his feet, pulling Anthony by the arm behind him as he spreads his wings wide. “You _dare_ ,” he spits out. “You don’t deserve to say that name,” and he’s raising his arms, summoning every last bit of his power, pulling hellfire out of the earth, razing everything around them with searing heat. He can feel it consuming him, every lick of the flames forming a shield around them scorching his demonic self in return.

“Get out of here, Anthony,” he manages, his gaze fixed on Sandalphon, who’s frozen in place, looking almost comically frightened as he stares at Crowley from the other side of the wall of flames. “Take Crowley with you, go back to Eden—”

“I’m not leaving without you, you bloody idiot—” Anthony scrapes out.

“You have to,” Crowley interrupts him. The hellfire is clawing at him from the inside out, consuming him whole, and he’s struggling to keep it burning—he doesn’t know how long he has left, he doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. “Hurry _,_ while you still can—”

 _“No,”_ Anthony says desperately. “We can still leave now, all three of us—”

“You know as well as I do that isn’t true,” Crowley says, his voice grating in his throat. A stab of guilt goes through him when he remembers his promise to Alexander. “Better for some of us to make it back rather than none of us at all.”

“Crowley, you can’t—”

“Says who?” Crowley says, a ragged chuckle caught in his chest. “ _Go._ _”_

The yellow-orange-red of the fire burns brighter as he raises his hands, forcing Sandalphon to take several steps back on the other side of the flames, his eyes widening with fear. A wild laugh escapes Crowley’s throat, the heat tearing his insides apart—

Suddenly, bright blue flames erupt amidst his hellfire, the dizzying combination of colours illuminating everything in their surroundings with their blazing light—he feels it tempering the singeing heat in his body, the relentless scorch subsiding to a dull burn—and he sees an angel with his wings spread to their full length, a hand held up steadily before him to control the holy flame. He turns his head to meet Crowley’s gaze, his eyes blazing so brightly they glow nearly white. The outline of an enormous blade etches itself in red and blue among the flames, the shield of fire growing higher and higher until it hides them completely from Sandalphon.

He pushes Crowley behind him, his wings glowing incandescent, spreading so wide the tips nearly touch the heavens.

“Crowley,” he says, the mortal voice of his corporation overlaid with the ethereal voice of his true form, and the breath catches in Crowley’s chest so sharply that the sound is like a sob.

“Oh, _angel_ ,” he whispers, and he has to blink away the moisture that’s blurring his vision, overcome by a mixture of terror and joy, sorrow and glorious relief.

“Take them and go,” the angel commands in his many-layered voice, the swirling flames forming a protective dome around them. “Go back now—”

“Not without you, we’re not,” Anthony says, his voice scraping its way out of his throat, the injured Crowley’s arm slung over his shoulders. He reaches for Crowley’s hand as Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pressing his forehead for a moment against the narrow expanse between Aziraphale's wings.

“Hang on, angel,” he says. "We'll make it out together."

At last, Aziraphale steps back from the flames and envelops all three demons with one enormous wing, and Crowley tightens his hold on Anthony's hand as he summons the last of his strength to get them back to Eden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay. Let's kick off the new year with some BAMF!Aziraphale <3 Thank you so much to everyone who's yelled and drawn art and sent love!! 
> 
> Just a couple of things:
> 
> I'm tickled pink by everyone who wanted a human AU, were you all peeking into my WIP folder?? Dropping a quick hint here - those two will be a surprise tool that will help us later! (I've also made the most excruciating self-reference here, so if you've noticed it in this chapter, then you might have a better idea of where this fic is going.)
> 
> ALSO. It's been brought to my attention that there are people who are shipping some of the characters in this fic in ways I absolutely did not anticipate, and I'm beyond delighted about it lmao. In case you're interested in reading any extra stuff I've been writing on the heels of several discussions over Twitter and Discord, I've made this fic part of a series you can subscribe to for more shenanigans of the E-rated variety! I'll be posting something new sometime in the next few days so keep your eyes peeled. (But don't worry about reading them if you aren't into that - they'll be completely separate from this main fic which will remain Aziraphale/Crowley and rated T!)


	6. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait,” Camiel says suddenly, his voice unexpectedly loud. Everyone looks up at him, and he blushes to the roots of his hair. “M-maybe I could. Heal him, I mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, HELLO. This chapter will have some hurt/comfort, please take care if you're sensitive to mentions of blood or injuries.
> 
> But before anything else, I'm very excited to share two things:
> 
> 1) This absolutely adorable [artwork by lookitsstevie](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/post/640527536802136064/it-might-look-like-a-double-post-but-its-not#notes) of Arthur and Quetz being reunited in Chapter 3! (Thanks to [CinnabarMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnabarMint/pseuds/CinnabarMint) for helping us find each other, omg.)
> 
> 2) This unbelievably gorgeous [artwork by kai-art](https://kai-art.tumblr.com/post/641021459704201216/some-ineffable-wives-for-contraststudies) who drew Antonia and Aurélia for this chapter! Colonial-era ineffable Filipina wives straight out of my wildest dreams! 
> 
> Please throw all your love at them, they're so incredibly talented and I can't believe they drew art for this, augh.
> 
> And without further ado, our updated cast list: 
> 
> 1\. TV Omens: Crowley (C) and Aziraphale (A)  
> 2\. Radio Omens: Anthony (C)  
> 3\. Book Omens: A.J. (C)  
> 4\. Reverse Omens: Camiel (C) and Ezra (A)  
> 5\. Medieval Omens: Quetz (C) and Arthur (A)  
> 6\. Eden Omens: Aeos (A)  
> 7\. Ineffable Wives: Antonia (C) and Aurélia (A)  
> 8\. Apocalypse Omens: [unnamed Crowley] (C) and Alexander (A)  
> 9\. Ineffable Tutors: Mr. Harrison (C)

The next few hours blur together in Crowley’s mind.

Eden turns into a flurry of angels and demons, and only a few moments stand out in Crowley’s memory. A.J.’s terrified whisper of, “Satan, what happened?” Aziraphale’s arm, warm around his waist. Aeos with his hands clapped over his mouth in horror, Quetz and Arthur quickly shielding him from the sight.

Alexander and Harrison help Anthony lower the injured Crowley on his stomach onto the ground. The large blanket miracled under him is quickly stained with the ichor and blood running from his wings. The skin of his back is bright red, enormous blisters already erupting beneath the surface.

“Divine burns,” Harrison mutters. “He’s lucky he survived the smiting.”

Alexander had looked up at them, his face white as a sheet, eyes wide with terror. “What do we do?”

Anthony collapses on his knees on the ground next to Harrison, the lines on his face tight with pain and exhaustion. He waves a hand at the injured Crowley, whose laboured breathing is agonisingly loud. “Can’t you heal him?”

A shudder runs through Alexander. “I can’t. Oh, God,” he whispers, and a collective intake of breath runs around the circle as he blasphemes. “I can’t. It will only make it worse. Believe me, we’ve tried. It won’t work.”

“Oh, but we must do _something,_ _”_ Aeos cries out. He kneels and pushes the dark sweat-damp hair away from the injured Crowley’s forehead. “He’s burning up.”

 _I do not know if there is anything we can do for him,_ Quetz’s low voice echoes in the clearing. The end of his tail coils gently around Aeos’s wrist, restraining his hand. _Be careful, angel. Alexander is right. You must not try, you will only hurt him._

Arthur’s arm tightens around Quetz’s waist where skin meets shining black and red scales, pulling Quetz close to him protectively. The look of fear on his face tells Crowley he’s picturing Quetz with these same injuries.

“I can’t, I don’t know—” Alexander’s voice breaks as he takes the limp hand, presses it to his lips. “Have none of you tried before?”

“No,” Aurélia says softly. She gives Antonia a quick look, and Antonia’s hand slips beneath the wide sleeve into the crook of Aurélia’s arm. “Well, once,” Aurélia amends, an apologetic look on her face.

“Never again.” Antonia winces. “Angel, demon…”

“Probably explode,” A.J. finishes. Ezra throws him a warning look as Alexander flinches, and he subsides. “Right, sorry. Bedside manner.”

“Please, dear boy,” Alexander murmurs in a tone that makes Crowley’s chest clench in sympathy. “Wake up, please wake up—”

“Wait,” Camiel says suddenly, his voice unexpectedly loud. Everyone looks up at him, and he blushes to the roots of his hair. “M-maybe I could. Heal him, I mean.”

Alexander’s brow furrows, a wing raising defensively over his Crowley, but Ezra’s eyes brighten. “I see. Oh, darling, that’s a brilliant idea.”

“What are you saying?” Alexander says cautiously.

Camiel glances at Ezra, who nods encouragingly. He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “We’re the same, aren’t we?” He gestures to himself, then to the injured Crowley. “All I’m saying is that he might not react the same way to my Grace the way he does to yours. No offence,” he adds quickly, and Alexander nods in acknowledgment. “He’ll recognise me, in a way. Or at least, he’ll recognise who he used to be.”

“It could be worth a try,” Ezra says softly. “The only problem is that—”

“You’re still holy, angel,” Anthony says to Camiel.

“I know,” Camiel says soberly. He gets to his knees on the blanket next to Alexander. “It will hurt him. But he will be healed. Will you risk it?”

“I—” Alexander shuts his eyes. Takes a ragged breath, then another.

“There might be another way,” Ezra says, his serpent’s eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, thinking hard. “You could channel your healing through a demon. It would lessen the impact of your divinity.”

Alexander’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “I categorically refuse to have another Crowley be hurt. How could you even _suggest—_ _”_

“But it wouldn’t need to be another Crowley,” Ezra says wearily, and Camiel’s gaze snaps up to his face, looking suddenly frightened. “I could do it just as easily, you know.”

“No,” Alexander says immediately, shaking his head. “No. I will not have any of you—”

“Listen to me.” Ezra kneels down next to Harrison so he can look Alexander in the eye. “I’m offering because I _want_ to. Your Crowley, well… he’s not all that different from Camiel, is he?” Crowley notices a light flush has risen to Ezra’s face, and he’s very determinedly not looking at Camiel. “And you and I, we aren’t so different, even now. I… I think you understand what I’m trying to say.”

Alexander stares at him for a long moment, his throat working visibly. At last, he nods, but the lines around his mouth are pinched tight. “You must be careful,” he says, his voice pleading.

Camiel’s brown eyes are wide with fear. “Ezra, I don’t like this,” he mutters.

“We must.” Crowley recognises the steely look on Ezra’s face and knows he isn’t going to let Camiel back out of this.

Harrison nods. He tugs one of Anthony’s arms over his shoulder and gently pulls him to his feet. He sways somewhat—Anthony is much bigger than he is—but A.J. steps forward, helping him support Anthony’s weight. “I’m guessing we should, er. Leave you to it.”

“That might be best,” Ezra says quietly.

The rest of the group files away in twos and threes, but to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale falls to his knees next to Alexander.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his voice tremulous. “Hastur managed to corner me and we got separated after Sandalphon arrived. I didn’t mean to leave him alone, I didn’t, I’m so sorry—”

“No, no,” Alexander says, alarmed, taking Aziraphale’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “You have nothing to apologise for. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I thought he was—” Aziraphale presses his hand to his mouth quickly, but a sob escapes through his fingers.

“S’going to be fine,” Camiel says kindly, though the crease between his eyebrows betrays his worry. “We’ll patch him up and he’ll be right as rain.”

“Let me stay, please,” Aziraphale says, his voice trembling. He looks up at Crowley, his blue eyes filling with tears. “This is my fault. I want to know he’ll be alright.”

Crowley nods, heartsick for what Aziraphale has had to endure while they were apart. There will be a time for a proper reunion for them, but it isn’t now. “S’not your fault, angel.”

“He’s right, you know.” Alexander squeezes his hand, his eyes watery, and tries for a smile. “I know you did your best, just the same as I would have.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look quite convinced, but he wipes at one eye with the edge of his sleeve. Crowley sighs and snaps his fingers, hands a black handkerchief to one angel and a red one to the other. He gets identical grade-A Aziraphale smiles for it (although both are admittedly trembling slightly around the corners), and thinks to himself that the full wattage of one smile already knocks the breath out of him at the best of times. Two of them at once is beyond overwhelming.

“We’re about to get started,” Ezra says. “Camiel, do you want to give it a try now?”

Camiel looks like he’s struggling to speak. “Ezra,” he finally says. “You have to tell me. If it’s too much. Swear you will.”

“I will, angel,” Ezra says softly. “But we have more important things to worry about at the moment.”

“Oh, but—” Alexander starts, but cuts himself off when Ezra shakes his head minutely at him. “Oh, dear,” he says under his breath to Aziraphale. “I do hope they’ll be alright.”

Aziraphale nods fervently in agreement. Ezra snaps his fingers and places a folded piece of dark tartan-patterned cloth between his teeth. This has the immediate effect of horrifying Camiel, and Crowley feels exactly the same—there’s something unutterably macabre about the sight of Ezra with his jaw grimly set, bracing himself as though he’s about to be tortured.

“Ezra, I can’t—” Camiel’s face is the picture of agony.

“Do it, angel,” Ezra says, the words muffled through the cloth, and holds his hand an inch over the injured Crowley’s burned skin, palm facing down.

Camiel takes a deep breath and sets his calloused hand on top of Ezra’s carefully. “Are you ready?”

Ezra nods, and Camiel closes his eyes, concentrating. When he opens them again, they’re glowing amber, and his hand suffuses itself with a soft golden light. Ezra exhales sharply through his nostrils, his other hand clenching into a fist in his lap.

“How’s that?”

“Fine,” Ezra says through his gritted teeth. “Keep going.”

The soft golden light comes into contact with the burned skin, and the injured Crowley jerks slightly. Alexander and Aziraphale both start forward, but Crowley holds them back. “Don’t,” he says, though his chest is aching sharply at the look of pain on Ezra’s face. “Let them.”

Ezra’s hand is glowing with divine power, and Camiel gently guides his hand over the planes of the demon’s back. Crowley’s eyebrows lift in surprise to see the angry red blisters subsiding back into smooth paleness as their joined hands hover over his skin.

“They’re doing it,” Aziraphale says incredulously. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

“There are a great many things I would not have thought possible before now,” Alexander says faintly. Crowley hesitates before he reaches out and squeezes the angel’s shoulder. Alexander smiles wetly and covers Crowley’s hand with his own, patting it gently before letting go.

By the time Camiel finishes healing the injured Crowley’s back, Ezra’s broken out into a cold sweat, and the knuckles on his clenched fist have gone white against his dark trousers. He huffs out a grateful breath when Camiel lets go of his hand, wringing it as though he’s trying to get the blood flowing through it again.

“How was that?” Camiel is watching Ezra anxiously.

Ezra pulls the cloth out of mouth, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “It hurts,” he says conversationally. “But it’s bearable, angel. Shall we do his wings next?”

Camiel nods slowly, and they move, settling themselves over the right wing lying limp on the blanket, the grey feathers completely torn out in spots, raw skin showing beneath. Ezra puts the cloth back in his mouth and holds his hand out over the wing.

“This is a little more difficult,” Camiel mutters. “It… it will take more effort to heal these.” He looks up at Ezra, his brown eyes full of worry. “Tell me if it’s too much. You promised me.”

Ezra simply nods, but says nothing more. Camiel tentatively settles his hand over Ezra’s, and they start over, only this time the golden glow of their hands is brighter than before, and Ezra lets out what might have been a hiss if there hadn’t been a piece of cloth between his teeth.

“Still manageable?”

“Mmhmm,” Ezra bites out. “Don’t stop.”

Shockingly enough, Camiel’s glowing eyes look up from the damaged wing for a moment and honest-to-someone _winks_ at Ezra, whose eyebrows lift so high with surprise that they threaten to disappear into his hairline. He throws an astonished glance at Crowley over his shoulder—Crowley has to stifle a laugh, and so does Alexander.

“He is definitely just like you,” Alexander says to Crowley, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

“Bit of a bastard, he is,” Crowley agrees. Aziraphale looks up and smiles at him.

But the moment passes immediately when Ezra makes a low grunt of pain over a particularly painful-looking spot where the skin has broken.

“Ezra?” The golden light fades immediately from Camiel’s palm.

“It’s fine,” Ezra says through the cloth, though his face is drawn and pale.

The rest of the wing is healed without much incident, and the injured Crowley already looks more relaxed, his breathing more even. But Ezra’s shoulders are shaking, and when he raises his hand to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes, his fingers leave a smear of blood on his forehead.

Camiel reaches for his other hand quickly, and gasps to see that his nails have cut into his palm, red half-moons blooming from clenching his fingers against the pain.

“Ezra, you promised—”

“I can manage,” Ezra says, working his jaw with a wince, the piece of cloth in his other hand. “We still have one more wing.”

The eerie amber glow of Camiel’s eyes has abated, and he looks up at Crowley, his face pained. “Maybe Crowley could take a turn,” he suggests desperately, and Crowley is already opening his mouth to agree before Ezra interrupts.

“No,” he says firmly, and glances at Alexander. “No,” he repeats.

Alexander looks torn, but after a moment, he nods. “Ezra can do it,” he says quietly. “He’s much stronger than he looks, you know.”

“He is,” Aziraphale agrees.

“And he will tell you if it’s too much,” Alexander continues. A significant look passes between him and Ezra.

“I will,” Ezra says. “Let’s get on with it, angel.”

They move on to the other wing, and this time, Ezra can’t help the harsh sound that scrapes its way out of his throat when Camiel begins.

“Ezra—”

“No,” Ezra says at once, but his hand is shaking visibly under Camiel’s.

Crowley kneels on the blanket between Aziraphale and Alexander, partly to stop himself from forcibly taking Ezra’s place, partly to seek comfort. He can see Camiel’s face. He knows exactly what it’s costing Camiel to be hurting Ezra like this.

“Oh, dear boy,” Alexander murmurs, laying a hand gently on his knee. “They’ll be alright. Ezra can take more than this.”

It’s hard to believe when Crowley has to watch Ezra with his eyes screwed up in agony, teeth clenched around the tartan cloth. Ezra can’t hold back the sharp sounds of pain now, audible even with the cloth muffling his voice, when Camiel has to exert more power to heal a wound.

“Ezra,” Camiel’s voice finally breaks. “ _Please._ ”

“Finish,” Ezra says, his voice barely a rasp. “Almost there. You can do it.”

Tears are sliding down Camiel’s face now, but he obeys, shuddering visibly whenever Ezra lets out a gasp of pain. But at last, the last bit of raw skin is healed, and Alexander is on his feet, hurrying to his Crowley, who’s stirring at long last. Golden serpent’s eyes blink open, focusing on Alexander’s face blearily.

“Hey, angel,” his demon murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“Crowley,” Alexander says softly, and a smile breaks on his face like the dawn.

But Camiel kneels next to Ezra, who’s crumpled into his arms, trembling so hard he can’t speak. Camiel coaxes the cloth from Ezra’s mouth and holds him tightly, burying his face in Ezra’s salt-and-pepper curls, whispering words that Crowley can’t make out.

“I would have done the same for you,” Aziraphale says, his voice fierce, and his hand cups Crowley’s face, turning it towards his. His face is streaked with tears, and there’s just the slightest tell-tale glow in his blue eyes, his divinity shining through the way it had on the battlefield. “Oh, Crowley, Crowley, my dearest, my _love_.”

He pulls Crowley to him and Crowley melts into his embrace, the warmth of Aziraphale’s arms and wings wrapped around him protectively, and when their lips meet at last, Crowley sighs in relief. _This is all I wanted,_ he thinks, _to know you loved me like this._

—

Later, they help settle Ezra onto the blanket next to the injured Crowley. Camiel is slumped against Alexander’s broad shoulder now, his eyes closed as Alexander murmurs to him quietly, his arm wrapped comfortingly around Camiel.

“Let’s give them a moment, shall we? I should probably, erm,” Crowley says, slightly awkward at this latest development in the proceedings despite being full to the brim with happiness, “introduce you to everyone?”

“That might be a good idea,” Aziraphale says, laughing breathlessly. “We’ll have plenty of time later, won’t we?”

“As much time as you want, angel,” Crowley promises, and Aziraphale beams and presses a kiss to his cheek. Crowley tries his utmost best not to spontaneously combust. They rejoin the rest of the group, but Anthony is nowhere to be seen—and neither is Aeos.

“Anthony stomped off somewhere over there,” Antonia confides in Crowley. “And Aeos went to follow him.”

Crowley nods, the worry starting to build in his stomach. “Keep Aziraphale company for me, won’t you?”

Antonia laughs. “I think he’s busy at the moment,” she says, jerking her chin at Aziraphale, whose attentions are currently being occupied by A.J. and Harrison. “Besides, I don’t think you’ve been introduced to Aurélia?”

“I haven’t, as a matter of fact,” Crowley admits, laughing as Antonia darts around behind her angel, her tongue flicking out teasingly. “Nice dress,” he says to Aurélia. “Suits you.”

“Why, thank you, dear,” Aurélia says primly, but she giggles as Antonia rolls her eyes, snapping her fan open. “I keep trying to tell Antonia here she should at least _try_ it out—”

“Angel, you _know_ you’re several years behind the fashion,” Antonia protests.

“And you’re trying to, what,” Aurélia says, tapping the stiff collar of Antonia’s shirt, “start a new one?”

“Whatever works, am I right?” Antonia winks at Crowley. “Anyway, you should go talk to Anthony,” she says, lowering her voice as Aurélia nods next to her, looking solemn. “Aeos might be able to cheer him up, but I don’t think that’s what he needs right now.”

“What do you mean?”

Aurélia hums thoughtfully. “Do you know, Antonia gets into certain, shall we say, moods.” Antonia is already about to object, but Aurélia shushes her, forestalling her argument. “Just a moment, dearest, I promise this is relevant.”

“Moods,” Crowley repeats, raising an eyebrow at Antonia, who raises and drops one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I daresay you get them too. A tendency to keep things to yourself. Pushing important things under the rug.” Aurélia smiles gently at him to take away the sting of her words, though Antonia huffs beside her, clearly discomfited. “But you see, my dear, those things can’t be kept locked up forever. One day, the weight of them will break you.”

“So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying that Anthony might be carrying too heavy a burden now,” Aurélia says quietly. “Try to pick at whatever it is that’s eating at him, won’t you?”

—

“Anthony.”

Both Aeos and Anthony’s heads turn toward the sound of Crowley’s voice. Aeos withdraws the wing that’s draped across Anthony’s shoulders and gets to his feet, approaches Crowley.

“He won’t tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs to Crowley out of earshot of Anthony, looking troubled. “But he… he’s hurting. I know it.”

“Guess it’s time to find out what this is all about,” Crowley sighs. “Thanks, angel.”

Aeos smiles and squeezes his hand gently. _Huh._ Crowley spares a moment to wonder what Aeos’s Crawly would think of all this when he gets here. Crowley shakes off the thought and goes to sit by Anthony, who’s staring into space. For a long moment, he doesn’t move at all. Crowley clears his throat. “We’re going to have to talk about all this sometime, you know.”

Anthony blinks, coming out of his reverie. “Oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Crowley confirms. “You going to tell me what’s going on in that inflated head of yours or am I going to have to pry it out of you?”

Anthony snorts. “You could try.”

“This could go so much easier if you would just say it, you know.”

“Is that so?” To Crowley’s surprise, Anthony leaps to his feet, suddenly agitated. “Which bit did you want to talk about first, then? The part where we nearly died in a universe where the Apocalypse is actually happening?” He’s pacing back and forth, running his hands through his hair until it stuck up everywhere like an unruly rosebush. “Or maybe we can go back to the very beginning of all this, when Aziraphale—” He cuts himself off, his breathing shallow and fast.

“Anthony.”

Crowley turns quickly to see A.J. standing behind him, his hands in his pockets and a glare on his face.

The furious pacing stops for a moment as Anthony looks up at him. “What?”

“What aren’t you telling us?”

“Look, it’s not as simple as all that—” Anthony begins.

“Try us,” A.J. interrupts firmly.

Anthony lets out a growl of frustration, grabbing at his hair. “Fine! Fine. If you want to know so badly. I think I might know what caused all this. All this switching.” He flaps a hand in the direction of the others. “I… I think it started with me and Aziraphale. My Aziraphale, obviously.”

“What about him?”

“I have a flat, see. But I basically live in the bookshop. There’s a little room upstairs,” Anthony says. Crowley tries to recall if he’s ever seen a second floor in Aziraphale’s bookshop. “Anyway, one day I decided to go back to my flat to check on my plants. They need constant supervision, you know how it is.” Crowley and A.J. both make noises of agreement. “I took a nap before heading back to the bookshop, but… I ended up sleeping longer than I meant to.”

“It happens,” A.J. says, shrugging.

“Right, right. And so I… I slept. For a little over a week, I think.”

Crowley doesn’t see where this is going at all, but A.J. seems content to let Anthony ramble as he pleases. “Good nap?”

“Not bad, as naps go.” Anthony’s grey wings are fluttering in agitation. “You see, here’s the thing. I get to the bookshop, right? And it’s locked up the way Aziraphale does before he heads out, you know how fussy he is, locking things up the human way when a couple of miracles would do just as well.” A.J. nods, and Crowley makes a huff of exasperation. “So… Alright, fine. Maybe Aziraphale went out for something. He does that, right? It’s all fine. But then I go to the café across the street to pick up some pastries for him, and they tell me—” Anthony stops, inhales deeply. “They tell me,” he says, forcing himself to continue, “that they haven’t seen Aziraphale since he left the bookshop because he stopped over for some hot chocolate and coffee on his way out, and that had been _three days ago._ Three days, the bookshop had been shut tight and… and Aziraphale _gone,_ all while I was taking a fucking _nap._ ”

Anthony drops to the ground in an immense mess of knees and elbows, his face buried in his hands. Crowley starts forward, but A.J. holds him back. “Have you considered he’s just in some other universe, same as Crowley’s was? And mine? Be reasonable.”

“He isn’t,” Anthony says, his voice muffled.

Crowley sees that he’s trembling slightly, and is suddenly afraid. “What do you mean, he isn’t?”

“I mean, he _isn_ _’t._ We warded both the bookshop and my flat so that they would be virtually undetectable to both angels and demons, but anywhere outside of that is fair game.” Anthony says, lifting his face from his hands, and his eyes are red-rimmed and wet. “Do you know what it felt like when I went to look for him when the bookshop burned down? Felt like there was—”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but Crowley knows exactly what he means. There had been a void in the world that had been exactly the size and shape of an angel whose presence he’d known and felt for six thousand years, and _that,_ more than anything, had been how Crowley had been certain that Aziraphale was gone.

He hadn’t felt that before Anthony had arrived. There had been no such emptiness in the world. Only a terrible sense of uncertainty, as though he were caught in limbo. Which meant that—

“Oh, Anthony,” Crowley says at last.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Anthony snarls. “Don’t start feeling sorry for me—”

“Wait, wait,” A.J. interrupts, but Crowley knows he’s trying to head Anthony off before he starts building up a proper outburst. “You think that your Aziraphale went missing and that’s what caused all this to happen? Is that why you’ve been going around trying to find everyone again?”

Anthony scoffs. “Can you think of any other reason?”

 _Huh._ A.J. might be onto something. “How do you know which universes to go to, anyway?” Crowley asks, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Anthony says. He stares down at his shoes, lost in thought. “I just… I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s because my Aziraphale is—” He stops, inhales deeply. “The point is, I suppose it’s easier for me to tune in to… his _absence._ I know how it sounds, but I feel like I’m following him, in a way, across universes. Only he… he’s never actually there, and every time we get to someplace new, I hope it will be him, but it never is,” Anthony concludes brokenly, his voice grating. “And it never will be, because he’s _gone._ ”

There’s a long silence. Crowley hardly knows what to say—his throat is aching in sympathy with Anthony. Finally, A.J. heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. He stands over Anthony for a moment, then suddenly cuffs him hard over the head with an enormous white wing.

“Oi!” Anthony protests. “What the Hell was that for?”

“For being an _idiot,_ ” A.J. says, folding up into a pile of limbs on the ground next to Anthony so that their shoulders are pressed together. “Who’s to say your Aziraphale still isn’t out there somewhere waiting for you?” He shakes his head with disbelief. “Look, I know we’re all disasters here, but you win every award for all this dark and brooding nonsense.”

“I’m being realistic,” Anthony snaps and presses his lips together, as though he’s trying not to smile. “And no, I’m certain being dark and brooding is still Crowley’s badge of honour.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and gets up, cuffing Anthony one more time for good measure before settling down on the ground on Anthony’s other side.

“It’ll be alright,” A.J. says abruptly. “You’ve had that thought in your head for much too long. Do you even hear how absurd you sound?”

“I do _not_ sound absurd,” Anthony mumbles.

“You do. All I’m hearing is that you haven’t been reunited with your angel yet. And neither have I. Think we’re in the same boat here, don’t you?”

“That’s true,” Crowley says. “Maybe things aren’t as pear-shaped as you think they are just yet.”

“Oh, shut up,” Anthony groans. “I see all your blatantly transparent attempts at trying to make me feel better. Bit out of character, honestly—”

His words are cut off by a pair of arms flinging themselves around his neck and squeezing hard, accompanied by the rustle of long skirts.

“Thank someone you’ve finally decided to snap out of it.” Antonia grins at Crowley. “Nice job.”

“Oh, _do_ _ña,_ were you _eavesdropping?_ I’m appalled, truly,” Anthony says in a deadpan voice. “I would never have thought it of you.”

“It’s what you would have done.” Antonia turns to wink at A.J. “And no, actually, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Not the whole time, at least. But I thought of it when I heard you talking about being more _tuned in._ ”

“Thought of what?”

Antonia hums, considering. “I can… feel what you’re feeling, in a way. Not you, exactly,” she says, prodding Anthony in the arm. “Now that I think about it, it’s easier with—”

“Me?” A.J. finishes, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Exactly,” she says. “Maybe we’re more attuned to each other than we think. Some of us more than others. Me and A.J. You and Alexander’s Crowley, from what I’ve heard.” She rests her chin on top of Anthony’s head, staring into the distance. “Either way, don’t you think we would have felt it too? If your angel was…”

“I think she might actually be right for once,” Crowley says, nudging Anthony with his shoulder as Antonia rolls her eyes at him.

“Ugh, stop, you’re all terrible demons,” Anthony says, shaking his head, but there’s a hint of his usual grin on his face. “Look at you all actually trying to cheer someone up. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“Well, seeing as we’re all _technically_ the same demon, you really shouldn’t be saying things like that about yourself,” A.J. says, laughing.

Crowley watches the three of them bantering, and it occurs to him just how easy it is to be with them, these versions of him that were him, but were not _quite_ him—and yet still similar enough to share all the same thoughts, the same hurts. Some burdens are so much lighter when shared, he thinks, smiling to himself, and drapes a black wing over the three demons laughing beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated because exams and _life_ , so I hope you liked this! 
> 
> Thank you to NaroMoreau and Jenanigans1207 as always for holding my hand as I struggled to write, and to lookitsstevie and kai-art for all the motivation and love!


	7. Evening Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What was it like, being there?” 
> 
> A quick sidelong glance is all it takes for Crowley to notice the shadow that’s fallen across Aziraphale’s face. There’s a long pause. Crowley feels the white wing tucking itself more closely around him, as though to shield him. 
> 
> “I don’t even know where to begin.” Aziraphale lets out a breath in a slow exhale. “It was… terrifying, to say the least. But there was wonder in it, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I'm sorry, it's been a while, I know. I had a million deadlines the past couple of months that I needed to finish, but I did my best to give you another chapter before February ended. Thank you for being patient and I hope some of you are still around to read this!
> 
> Before anything else, please feast your eyes on [this art](https://lookitsstevie.tumblr.com/post/643432335459663872/two-aziraphales-one-very-happy-crowley-from) by lookitsstevie on Tumblr of Aeos, Arthur and Quetz from the Eden slumber party in chapter four, and also [this art](https://twitter.com/irishwolfhound0/status/1358491553459826691) by irishwolfhound0 on Twitter of Ezra and Camiel from the same chapter! You are so amazing, thank you so much for bestowing your talents upon me!!
> 
> Lastly, this chapter will have only TV!Crowley and Aziraphale, but here's the cast list from last chapter for reference just in case:
> 
> 1\. TV Omens: Crowley (C) and Aziraphale (A)  
> 2\. Radio Omens: Anthony (C)  
> 3\. Book Omens: A.J. (C)  
> 4\. Reverse Omens: Camiel (C) and Ezra (A)  
> 5\. Medieval Omens: Quetz (C) and Arthur (A)  
> 6\. Eden Omens: Aeos (A)  
> 7\. Ineffable Wives: Antonia (C) and Aurélia (A)  
> 8\. Apocalypse Omens: [unnamed Crowley] (C) and Alexander (A)  
> 9\. Ineffable Tutors: Mr. Harrison (C)

Here in Eden, all the nights are nice.

“What a day it’s been, don’t you think?” Aziraphale murmurs.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Crowley collapses next to him on the grass, just out of earshot of everyone else as Aziraphale chuckles.

“It’s so strange to be back here after so long. Do you still remember when we first met?”

“Angel,” Crowley says with a snort, “you can’t possibly think I’d forget that. S’not every day an angel of the Lord tells you he’s given away his flaming sword to keep the humans warm after they were banished from Eden.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Aziraphale steals a glance at Crowley from under his lashes. Tentatively, he holds out his hand in the space between them.

There’s a split second of hesitation before Crowley takes his hand, lacing their fingers together gently. It’s still so strange and new—Crowley feels a little like he’s caught in a dream. He can count on his fingers the number of times his skin has ever brushed Aziraphale’s in the thousands of years they have spent together. And yet here they are now, holding hands like it’s nobody’s business. It’s so fucking unbelievable that Crowley has to repress the urge to pinch himself hard to check.

He’s pretty sure he’s awake, though. He doesn’t think he could dream up the way Aziraphale’s thumb is running gentle circles over his skin.

“I was very taken with you, you know,” Aziraphale says, his eyes fixed on their entwined fingers.

“The feeling was mutual, angel,” Crowley says faintly, and that makes Aziraphale laugh. Someone help him, he’d do anything just to see Aziraphale smile like this every day of the rest of his existence. “Still is.”

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear it.” Aziraphale looks shyly up at him. “Honestly, I felt a little foolish today after meeting everyone. We seem to be a bit of an outlier here.”

“Nothing foolish about it, whatever everyone else has to say,” Crowley says, scoffing. “You’ve no idea what kind of teasing I’ve had to put up with from Anthony and the others.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. No one else seems to have kept silent about it for as long as we did.” Aziraphale’s hand tightens around Crowley’s, and his smile turns a shade closer to melancholy. “Perhaps it would have made no difference after all whether I’d kissed you today, or when I first met you… maybe I _should_ have kissed you that day of the first rain. Did all that waiting do us any good, in the end?”

There’s a lull in the conversation as Crowley tries to process this. He’s rarely ever heard Aziraphale so forthcoming with his emotions. He’s gazing at Crowley soberly, as though he’s been thinking about this for a long time.

And perhaps he has. Crowley has no idea what happened to the angel in the days they were apart—his heart clenches at the thought of everything Aziraphale had to witness and endure, caught in a universe that was ripping itself apart at the seams. He sees the marks the past few weeks have left on Aziraphale—the furrow in his brow that never seems to fully relax, the tightness around his mouth, the protective need to keep Crowley close by, safe under his wing.

It’s strange to put into words the sentiments that Crowley’s held so close to his chest for so many years now, but he tries his best. The least he can do is to give Aziraphale the same honesty in return. Even if it’s flaying him open to speak of his own secrets, worn on his sleeve but guarded jealously in his heart.

“None of that, angel,” Crowley says at last. There’s no denying how exposed he feels, naked and vulnerable under Aziraphale’s eyes. “It wasn’t safe for either of us. I know you did what you had to.”

“I did, and I appreciated you all the more for understanding that.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows knit together, a crease forming between them. “Although I do think I owe you an apology for how we left things before we were separated.”

“Look, it was a stupid thing, really—”

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice unexpectedly firm. “I think I’ve had quite enough of us dancing around each other like this.” He takes a deep breath. “You see, it makes sense for us to have held back all those years, but after the end of world—or the lack thereof, I should say—there was really no reason to, other than my own misgivings. Which isn’t to say I didn’t feel the same, dearest, you know I did,” he adds, forestalling Crowley’s objections. “I had simply grown so comfortable to the way we were. What if it didn’t work out for us, or if it turned out that we might not want the same things after all? There were simply too many risks… or so I thought. I was a coward,” he says simply. “I was willing to sacrifice what we could have just to be able to hold on to what we already were.”

“Angel,” Crowley says softly. He’s not sure what’s more overwhelming, the depth of Aziraphale’s regard, or the fact that he’s speaking of it so frankly—none of the dithering or plausible deniability Crowley’s become so accustomed to over the millennia. “I would have been happy, as long as I had you. You know that, don’t you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes are oddly bright. “But you see, you deserve so much more than that.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Look, Aziraphale, I get what you’re trying to say, I do. But you and I, whatever this is…” He trails off for a moment, and he thinks of the way Camiel had held Ezra when he collapsed after the injured Crowley had been healed of his divine injuries.

He knows just how difficult it is for angels to toe Heaven’s party line. Far be it from him to ever hold that against Aziraphale.

“I knew you loved me, angel,” Crowley scrapes out at last, his throat burning. “It frustrated me that we could never seem to get around to talking about it, but it was enough. It was enough to know that you loved me.”

“Oh, dearest.” Aziraphale lifts their clasped hands, presses a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles. “I did. I do.” He sighs quietly. “I’ve kept you waiting far longer than you should have… I’m very glad I wasn’t too late. I feared I’d never see you again.”

“Me too,” Crowley admits. He thinks about the weeks after he’d discovered Aziraphale had gone when he’d tried to find solace at the bottom of one bottle of liquor after another. On impulse, he scoots closer to Aziraphale until their shoulders are almost touching and lets out a long breath of relief when Aziraphale drapes a wing over him, enveloping him in warmth.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale whispers. “I missed you so much I felt it in my very bones.”

Crowley can’t resist leaning a little closer. “Missed you too, angel.”

“I hoped you’d find me again. It was all that kept me going, some days…” Aziraphale falls silent.

“What was it like, being there?”

A quick sidelong glance is all it takes for Crowley to notice the shadow that’s fallen across Aziraphale’s face. There’s a long pause. Crowley feels the white wing tucking itself more closely around him, as though to shield him.

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Aziraphale lets out a breath in a slow exhale. “It was… terrifying, to say the least. But there was wonder in it, too.”

“How could anything in that war zone of a world be wonderful?” Crowley shudders, remembering the screams, the crackle of divinity in the air, the frantic beat of his heart.

“Did Alexander tell you anything about it?”

“He did.” Crowley thinks for a moment. “Mostly to warn me about what would happen when we got there. Told me his Crowley was injured, and that the two of them weren’t the only angel and demon with… an arrangement. That’s how he described it.” He can feel the heat climbing to his face. “You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale nods. “You know, I was surprised. Michael and Ligur. I didn’t see that coming at all.”

“Me neither.” Crowley huffs out a laugh. “An Archangel and a Duke of Hell? What was that like? No, actually, I don’t want to know.”

“It took me a long time to get used to it,” Aziraphale says, his lips turning up into a small smile. “Theirs was a very quiet sort of love. No fanfare whatsoever. They loved each other, and that was that.”

“Huh.” Crowley doesn’t particularly want to think about it, but he has to admit that it doesn’t sound too bad, in its own way. “I always thought it’d be Gabriel and Beelzebub, to be honest.” He chances another glance at Aziraphale, who seems to be turning this over in his mind.

“I did too,” Aziraphale says after a long moment. “It’s an odd thing, the way those two love… And yes, I can tell they do. But for some reason, they’ve chosen to turn it on its head and call it hate.”

“Two sides of the same coin and all that, I suppose.”

“It makes me wonder,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Perhaps if they had chosen differently, then their world wouldn’t be in such chaos.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, interrupted by Anthony’s voice in the background raised in annoyance, Antonia responding with a laugh.

“What are you smiling about?” Aziraphale’s face softens, and there’s a hint of his usual twinkle back in his eyes.

Crowley jerks his head in the direction of the voices. “Been pretty chaotic here too, I’d say.”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “Really, it was rather disorienting to meet everyone. So many different versions of us! I can’t even imagine that angel fresh out of the Garden, he must have had a terrible shock. What have you been calling him again?”

“Oh, Aeos,” Crowley says, chuckling. “Do you know we found him with Quetz? Y’know, the one who’s half-serpent?”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly meet his hairline. “And how did Aeos take that?”

“They’ve gotten along very well, you know,” Crowley says, grinning at Aziraphale. “I feel like you’re making some sort of commentary about Quetz and his corporation. Dare I say you object to his gorgeous snakey body?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” the angel sniffs. “I certainly have no objections—”

“No objections?” Crowley interrupts, more than a little shocked by this revelation. “After I was cursed to crawl on my belly, and all that?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Aziraphale says haughtily, but there’s a light blush rising to his cheeks. “What I mean to say is that I, that is… whatever you wish to wear is quite alright with me.”

“Whatever I wish to—” Crowley can’t prevent himself from snickering. “Angel, seems to me as though you’re in _favour_ of Quetz’s form.”

Aziraphale swats at his arm lightly. “Crowley! You cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“You know, I could look like that,” Crowley muses, “theoretically, you know, if you wanted.”

“My, my, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, looking very much as though butter wouldn’t melt in his prim mouth. “One might be somewhat inclined to imagine you’re feeling something like _jealousy_.”

Whatever teasing remark Crowley had ready on the tip of his tongue vanishes into the aether as he splutters out a stream of incoherent vowels. “I’m not—”

“There, there,” Aziraphale says, patting his elbow in the most infuriating manner. “Rest assured, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Hang on—”

“But while we’re on the topic, I feel I must reiterate that I have no objections to Quetz and his form.” Aziraphale’s eyes are dancing with merriment now. “None whatsoever.”

Crowley’s face is on fire. _“Angel,”_ he chokes out.

“Which is to say that my feelings for you do not depend on what form you decide to take.” It’s thoroughly aggravating how calmly he manages to voice these opinions while Crowley is reduced to a blushing incoherent mess. “So if you _theoretically_ decided to trade your legs for a snake’s tail, I would be quite amenable.”

After this last remark, he seems to finally take pity on Crowley, who’s too flustered to speak. “Joking aside, my dear, I do mean it, you know.”

All Crowley has to offer in response is a startled “ngkrgh,” and Aziraphale laughs.

“Really, Crowley, I’d always thought you’d be more than capable of tolerating innuendo. But I’ll stop before your ears burst into flame.” He gazes at Crowley, the amusement clear on his face. “Tell me about the others instead. I hear you’ve had a few adventures yourself.”

“Nothing particularly exciting,” Crowley says, grumpy after being teased and quite unable to regain his composure. But to his surprise, Aziraphale’s wing actually gathers closer around him and pulls him in until he and Aziraphale are pressed flush together, shoulder to shoulder. “I see how it is,” Crowley protests. “First you mock me, and now you manhandle me.”

“I’m not doing anything of the sort, dearest,” Aziraphale says demurely. “Unless that is something you might be interested in, of course.

Crowley lets out a startled yelp and turns his face away, too embarrassed to look at Aziraphale in the eye. The angel laughs and takes Crowley’s hand in both of his own—it’s obviously an attempt to placate Crowley, and he isn’t having it. He sits stiffly, stubbornly trying to resist melting into Aziraphale’s touch, but it becomes apparent in a matter of seconds that all is lost. He leans down to press his cheek against the angel’s broad shoulder with a huff.

“I don’t know how I can even stand you,” he mutters.

“You know the answer to that perfectly well,” the angel says comfortably. “Now tell me all about it, please. What was it like when you met Anthony?” Crowley can feel the angel gazing at him. “It must have been quite a shock.”

“What an understatement.” Crowley chuckles despite himself. “I thought he was a demon trying to get into the bookshop.” He raises one shoulder, lowers it in a half-shrug. “I mean, I wasn’t wrong. But he’d disguised himself before he came in, and we nearly discorporated each other before I got a good look at him and saw his eyes.”

“Very lovely eyes indeed,” Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley splutters for a moment before he recovers from this. “ _Anyway,_ so we ended up back here together. Been picking everyone else up in pairs. Anthony’s been taking point, and A.J. and I take turns to go with him.”

Aziraphale makes a quiet sound. “Have you thought about why all this might be happening?”

“Well, yeah.” Crowley considers this question. He’s not certain how much he can share of what Anthony has told them. “See, angel, Anthony says he can sort of… sense his way toward where he’s supposed to go. He’s been trying to go in the direction of his Aziraphale, I think. But we still haven’t found him. Going from what Anthony has said, seems like he thinks that whatever happened to his angel is what triggered all of this.”

“And what does he think happened to his angel?”

Crowley wasn’t expecting him to sound so sombre. He glances up at Aziraphale and sees his face turned up toward the sky, its dark expanse dotted with stars.

“He expects the worst,” Crowley says softly. “We’ve told him what we think already—”

“Which is?”

“Which is that he’s being absurd, of course.”

It takes a while before Aziraphale speaks again. “Have you considered that he might be right?”

“Impossible,” Crowley says decisively.

“You don’t know that.”

“Hang on.” This is enough to make Crowley straighten up. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighs. “Anything might be possible at this point, don’t you think? Consider the fact that there’s a universe where I Fell and you didn’t, and another where the apocalypse has restarted and is well on its way. Why should that idea be so far-fetched?”

Crowley is struggling to marshal an argument against this. “It’s impossible and you know it.”

“You don’t know that,” Aziraphale repeats, and his tone is sharp enough now that Crowley almost pulls away—but even in the moonlight, he catches the tremble of Aziraphale’s lips.

“That’s not true, angel,” Crowley says, soft but firm. “There’s no universe where I exist, and you don’t.”

An audible exhale leaves Aziraphale’s parted lips, and he shakes his head minutely. “Crowley,” he whispers, “you have no idea what it was like there, to be constantly fearing for our lives nearly every moment. That time you arrived, when Alexander’s Crowley and I were separated…” His throat works visibly for a few seconds before he can continue. “I thought that Sandalphon had—that he had—”

“But he didn’t,” Crowley says, longing desperately to soothe Aziraphale, whose lips are pressed together tightly as though to still their quivering. “Honest to someone, angel, I always knew you were strong, but I had no idea you were capable of overpowering _Sandalphon._ ”

Aziraphale exhales sharply. “I hardly deserve credit for that. I only reinforced your hellfire.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” Crowley says softly. “Divine flame and hellfire together.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. What if it hadn’t worked? What if you had called up too much hellfire and—” Aziraphale’s voice breaks. “What if I hadn’t made it in time?”

“But you did. You saved us. You saved _me_.” Crowley can’t stand this for much longer. “Look at me, angel, please.”

When Aziraphale finally glances at Crowley, his blue eyes are red-rimmed and wet. Crowley can feel him shivering, and it breaks his heart. He tentatively lays his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel’s self-control gives way with the force of a dam breaking—he folds into Crowley’s arms, his whole body shaking with sobs.

It’s all Crowley can do to hold Aziraphale as tightly as he can, to let him find some respite from the terror he carried with him the whole time they were apart. Crowley blinks away the moisture from his own eyes and presses his lips against Aziraphale’s temple.

“Breathe, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “S’alright, we all made it out thanks to you. If anything, I’m even more convinced now. We don’t cancel each other out,” he says, the revelation dawning on him slowly. “Call it equipoise or whatever you like. It simply isn’t possible for one of us to exist without the other. Doesn’t it strike you as strange how Anthony and I made it there just in time? And how you found us right when Sandalphon did? I’d almost call it…” Crowley shudders slightly, but he says it anyway. “I’d call it ineffable.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that the wing curled protectively around him relaxes infinitesimally at his words. “You can rest for a while,” Crowley says softly. “Let me take a turn for once.”

“No,” Aziraphale says with his face hidden in Crowley’s neck, sniffling. His shivering has eased somewhat after his outburst, much to Crowley’s relief.

“We’re safe here. We all are.” Crowley rubs circles into Aziraphale’s back, as close to the base of the angel’s wings as he dares. “You can let go, just for a bit.”

Aziraphale still doesn’t relax entirely, but his wing falls gently against Crowley’s shoulders now, a warm blanket rather than an iron shield. Something tells Crowley that it will be a long while before the haunted look leaves Aziraphale’s eyes, and that no small amount of coaxing will relieve the tension of his rigid shoulders.

Instead, Crowley holds the angel until his tears let up, like a storm passing. Until his weight is heavy against Crowley’s chest, his breathing even and measured. Crowley keeps vigil over his angel as at last, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the folks in the Get It Write server for our week-long writing accountability check that kept me powering through this chapter! 
> 
> Updates may be coming a little fewer and farther in between since I've descended back into the pits of Hell (i.e. law school) but we're nearly at the end. I foresee at least two more chapters. Hope you'll hang in there for me until we make it!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
